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CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


BY 

BELLE    MOSES 

AUTHOR  OF  "LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT  " 


LONDON    AND    NEW   YORK 

D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
MY   FOUR    GIRL   FRIENDS 

KATHARINE,  EVELYN,  HARRIET  and  LAVINIA 

THIS   BOOK    IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED 


253320 


PREFACE. 

Those  who  know  and  love  their  Dickens,  know 
also  that  though  he  was  a  man  of  high  character, 
and  deep  and  sincere  purpose,  he  had  all  the  pe- 
culiarities of  a  great  genius.  On  whatever  side 
one  viewed  him,  one  saw  a  different  picture.  His 
moods  were  as  changeful  as  the  shifting  of  a 
kaleidoscope,  yet  always  interesting,  always  true 
to  some  simple  law  within  himself,  forming  — 
from  the  bright,  restless  particles  floating  in  the 
space  of  his  brilliant  mind  —  something  symmet- 
rical and  beautiful  for  the  world  to  look  at.  He 
has  painted  pictures  which  can  never  fade;  he 
has  created  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  as 
living  and  real  as  those  we  know  to-day,  and 
though  he  died  nearly  half  a  century  ago,  we  can- 
not help  feeling  that  only  his  quick,  moving  pres- 
ence has  vanished.  The  soul  of  the  man  flashes 
through  his  books,  which  will  hold  and  enthrall 
future  generations  as  they  have  held  the  genera- 
tions of  the  past. 

Nowhere  does  his  art  shine  forth  more  tenderly, 
more  beautifully,  and  more  truly  than  in  the  crea- 
tion of  his  girl  heroines.  Here  he  showed  the  skill 
of  the  sculptor  in  the  simple  grace  with  which  he 

vii 


PREFACK 

endowed  even  the  humblest  of  his  girls.  And  it  is 
chiefly  in  connection  with  this  side  of  his  many- 
sided  character  and  genius,  that  we  will  view  the 
man,  hoping  to  present  him  to  our  readers  —  if 
not  in  a  new  light  —  at  least  with  the  glow  of  the 
deep  and  kindly  interest,  and  the  gentle  courtesy 
which  always  marked  his  intercourse  with  girls, 
in  his  books  —  and  out  of  them. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  book,  I  have  been 
aided  through  many  sources,  but  my  chief  thanks 
are  due  to  the  libraries  —  the  Traveling  Library, 
the  St.  Agnes  branch  of  the  Public  Library,  and 
Columbia  University  Library,  for  their  very  effi- 
cient help  in  my  work. 

Belle  Moses. 


CONTENTS. 

PART  I. 
THE  BOY. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I, — In  the  Very  Beginning i 

II. — The  Real  David  Copperfield 19 

III. — The  Little  Dickenses  at  Home 41 

IV. — The  First  Start  in  Life  .     ...»     ...  58 

PART  II. 
THE  YOUNG  MAN. 

V. — The  First  Sparks  of  Genius 83 

VI. — The  First  Novels  and  What  Came  of  Them   .  102 

VII. — Master  Humphrey's  First  Tale 125 

VIII. — Dickens  and  the  Historical  Novel     .     ,     ,     ,  147 

PART  III. 
THE  BOOKS  THAT  MADE  THE  MAN. 

IX. — Dickens  and  America 171 

X. — The  Spirit  of  Christmas        192 

XL — The  Girls  of  Dickens's  Day 219 

XII. — Little  Housekeepers  in  Dickens-Land      .     .     .  247 


CONTENTS. 

PART  IV. 
THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  THE  BOOKS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Xni. — Dickens,  the  Many-Sided 275 

XIV. — Dickens  and  His  Friends 299 

XV. — Dickens  at  Home 314 


PART  I. 
THE  BOY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN    THE    VERY    BEGINNING. 


E  all  begin  pretty  much  the  same  way; 
little  red,  crumpled  bundles  of  hu- 
manity, tightly  tucked  up  in  bassinets 
which  we  soon  outgrow.  Some  of  us 
kick  more  than  others;  some  of  us  crow  more  than 
others;  some  of  us  cry  more  than  others;  but  we 
all  hit  out  aimlessly  with  our  tiny  fists,  and  chal- 
lenge the  world. 

In  America  all  men  are  born  equal,  but  in  Eng- 
land this  is  not  so.  The  majority  of  English 
babies  come  into  the  world  quite  humbly  (only  the 
favored  few  look  down  from  the  heights),  and  this 
was  the  case  with  little  Charles  John  Huffam  Dick- 
ens, who  sprang  from  the  great  Middle  Class, 
which  has  produced  more  great  men  and  women 
than  all  the  peers  and  princes  of  the  realm  could 
boast  of.  We  have  his  own  words  describing  the 
day  and  hour  of  his  birth: 

''  I  was  born  (as  I  have  been  informed  and  be- 
lieve) on  a  Friday  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night."  So 
says  little  David  Copperfield,  and  everyone  knows 
that  Charles  Dickens  and  David  Copperfield  were 

I 


.2,  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

doubles.  Dickens's  initials  were  C.  D.  (he 
dropped  John  Huffam  as  soon  as  he  had  a  voice 
in  the  matter),  and  David's  were  D.  C,  easy 
enough  to  turn  round  when  there  is  a  real  boy- 
hiding  behind  the  boy  in  the  book.  And  it  is  quite 
true  that  Charles  Dickens  was  born  at  Portsea,  on 
Friday,  February  7,  1812 — *' Leap  Year,"  one  of 
his  biographers  tells  us,  "  at  a  few  minutes  before 
midnight." 

The  house  in  which  he  was  born  was  like  many 
other  houses  in  Portsea;  indeed,  it  was  one  of  a 
row  and  not  in  any  way  distinguished  from  its 
fellows.  Each  house  had  a  gabled  roof  and  a 
dormer  window;  each  had  its  little  garden  in  the 
front,  separated  from  its  neighbor  by  a  thickly 
growing  hedge.  Now,  however,  having  once  con- 
tained the  cradle  of  Charles  Dickens,  Number  387, 
Mile-End  Terrace,  Portsea,  has  become  quite  a 
famous  little  residence,  one  of  the  landmarks  of 
this  shipping  center.  John  Dickens,  the  father  of 
Charles,  was  in  the  employ  of  the  Navy  Pay  Of- 
fice, and  upon  his  marriage  to  Elizabeth  Barrow, 
1809,  was  transferred  from  Somerset  House  to  at- 
tend to  the  paying  off  of  ships  at  Portsmouth,  so 
the  young  couple  resided  at  Portsea,  near  by. 
Here  three  of  their  children  were  born;  Frances 
Elizabeth  —  better  known  as  Fanny  Dickens  —  in 
November,  1810;  Charles  John  Huffam  Dickens, 
in  February,  1812,  and  a  third  child,  Alfred,  who 
died  when  he  was  a  baby. 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  3 

The  overshadowing  name  of  our  small  hero  was 
a  compliment  to  his  mother's  father  —  Charles,  to 
his  own  father  —  John,  and  to  his  godfather  — 
Christopher  Huffam,  also  connected  with  the 
Navy;  but  the  simpler  name,  which  the  world 
knows,  is  the  only  one  by  which  he  was  ever  called, 
and  gradually  the  others  faded  from  the  minds  of 
all  who  knew  the  "  small  queer  boy." 

There  were  in  all  eight  children  in  the  Dickens 
family;  the  three  above  mentioned  who  were  born 
in  Portsea;  then  followed  Letitia,  born  in  1816; 
another  daughter,  Harriet,  who  also  died  when  she 
was  a  baby;  Frederick,  born  in  1820;  Alfred 
Lamert,  born  in  1822;  and  Augustus,  in  1827. 

The  six  surviving  children  were  quite  enough 
for  one  poor  man  to  take  care  of,  and  John  Dickens 
lived  to  prove  that  he  was  a  poor  hand  at  taking 
care  of  anybody.  He  lent  money  as  freely  as  he 
borrowed,  and  so  this  good-natured,  improvident 
man  was  always  in  hot  water,  from  one  cause  or 
the  other,  and  loose  pennies  did  not  lie  around 
promiscuously  in  the  Dickens  household.  Quite 
early  in  life  the  little  Dickens  children  learned  to 
regard  pennies  with  awe  and  respect. 

Charles  Dickens's  memory  dipped  'way  back  into 
his  childhood,  so  far  back,  indeed,  that  it  seems 
hard  to  believe  that  the  baby  mind  could  hold,  even 
for  a  moment,  the  impressions  he  recalls.  Yet  he 
tells  us  that  they  are  not  merely  the  things  he  had 
heard,  but  what  he  had  seen  with  his  baby  eyes. 


4  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  thought  out  in  that  wondering  baby  brain  of 
his,  which  began  its  active  work  at  a  time  when 
most  babies  suck  their  thumbs  and  stare  into 
vacancy. 

His  first  impression  of  himself  is  very  vivid; 
a  laughing,  golden-haired  baby  boy,  taking  his  first 
steps  from  his  mother  to  his  nurse. 

''  I  believe  I  can  remember  those  two  at  a  little 
distance  apart,  dwarfed  to  my  sight  by  stooping 
down  or  kneeling  on  the  floor,  and  I  —  going  un- 
steadily from  one  to  the  other."  [This  was  little 
David  Copper  field's  experience.]     And  he  adds: 

"  This  may  be  fancy,  though  I  think  the  memory 
of  most  of  us  can  go  farther  back  into  such  times 
than  many  of  us  suppose."  He  has  a  further 
memory  of  a  pigeon-house  on  a  pole  in  the  center 
of  their  back  yard,  without  any  pigeons  in  it, 
and  of  a  dog-kennel  in  the  corner  —  without  any 
dog. 

He  remembered  also  a  long  passage  —  terribly 
long  it  seemed  to  his  childish  eyes  —  leading  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  front  door,  with  a  dreadful  dark 
closet  on  one  side,  where  provisions  were  stored  for 
family  use.  There  were  tubs  and  jars  and  tea- 
chests  in  this  room,  behind  which  any  unknown 
terrors  might  hide  and  jump  out  on  one,  so  the 
small  boy  with  the  big  imagination  ran  past  it  at 
night,  fear  lending  wings  to  his  feet. 

This  was  not  the  little  house  at  Portsea  which 
Dickens  has  described  so  vividly  as  the  first  resi- 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  5 

dence  of  David  Copperfield;  they  moved  to  another 
before  little  Charles  was  out  of  his  nurse's  arms, 
still  in  Portsea,  though  slightly  over  the  boundary- 
line;  and  in  1816,  when  the  boy  was  four  years 
old,  John  Dickens  moved  his  family  to  Chatham. 
In  their  new  home,  Number  2,  Ordnance  Terrace, 
where  they  lived  for  five  years,  were  passed  the 
only  happy  hours  of  childhood  the  "  small  queer 
boy  "  was  ever  to  know. 

There  were  only  three  children  in  the  Dickens 
family  when  they  moved  to  Chatham:  Fanny, 
Charles,  and  little  Letitia  Mary  —  a  very  pretty, 
dainty  little  girl.  Ordnance  Terrace  was  a  row 
of  houses  very  much  on  the  order  of  the  row  of 
houses  in  Mile-End  Terrace,  Portsea,  but  a  little 
roomier,  and  even  more  highly  respectable  from 
the  front.  There  were  lots  of  interesting  folk  in 
Ordnance  Terrace,  interesting,  that  is,  from  the 
small  boy's  point  of  view,  for  this  observing  young- 
ster of  four  tucked  away  beneath  his  curly  pate 
impressions  enough  to  pervade  his  books  in  after 
years. 

On  the  corner  resided  his  first  sweetheart,  little 
Lucy  Stroughill,  a  golden-haired  Lucy,  whose 
birthday  he  was  on  several  occasions  invited  to 
celebrate.     Here  is  his  own  description: 

"  I  can  very  well  remember  being  taken  out  to 
visit  some  peach-faced  creature  in  a  blue  sash,  and 
shoes  to  correspond,  whose  life  I  supposed  to  con- 
sist entirely  of  birthdays.  Upon  seed-cake,  sweet 
3 


6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

wine,  and  shining  presents,  that  glorified  young 
person  seemed  to  me  to  be  exclusively  reared.  At 
so  early  a  stage  of  my  travels  did  I  assist  at  the 
anniversary  of  her  nativity  (and  became  enamored 
of  her)  [he  means  that  he  went  to  her  birthday 
party  and  fell  in  love  with  her]  that  I  had  not  yet 
acquired  the  recondite  knowledge  that  a  birthday 
is  the  common  property  of  all  who  are  born,  but 
supposed  it  to  be  a  special  gift  bestowed  by  the 
favoring  heavens  on  that  one  distinguished  in- 
fant. There  was  no  other  company,  and  we  sat 
in  a  shady  bower,  under  a  table,  as  my  better  (or 
worse)  knowledge  leads  me  to  believe,  and  were 
regaled  with  saccharine  [sugary]  substances  and 
liquids,  until  it  was  time  to  part." 

This  is  a  child's  unfailing  idea  of  a  party;  just 
something  to  eat,  and  a  nice  snug  place  to  eat  it  in, 
and  the  fewer  people  there  —  why,  the  more  one 
can  eat,  of  course ;  but  in  addition  to  this,  we  must 
not  forget  that  Master  Charles  was  deeply  in  love 
with  the  golden  curls  and  the  blue  sash  with  the 
shoes  to  match,  and  so  the  feast  was  a  "  love- 
feast  "  flavored  with  "  seed-cake  and  sweet  wine." 

The  brother  of  his  divinity,  George  Stroughill, 
a  bright,  handsome,  manly  and  somewhat  daring 
boy,  was  a  few  years  older  than  the  small  Charles, 
who  admired  him  immensely,  with  very  much  the 
same  love  that  David  Copperfield  had  for  James 
Steerforth.  Indeed,  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
Dickens  had  this  early   friend  in  mind  when  he 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  7 

created  the  character  of  the  handsome,  reckless 
schoolboy. 

We  take  for  granted,  of  course,  that  to  most 
of  our  readers,  David  Copperficld  is  a  familiar 
friend;  for  the  life  of  little  Charles  Dickens  is 
so  interwoven  with  the  life  of  little  David  Copper- 
afield  that  it  is  hard  to  tell  of  the  childhood  of  one 
without  referring  in  some  slight  w^ay  to  the  child- 
hood of  the  other.  Upon  the  whole,  however, 
Charles  Dickens  had  the  easier  lot.  It  is  true  he 
was  a  sensitive,  delicate  child,  the  victim  of  neglect, 
but  his  parents  were  never  cruel  to  him.  Indeed, 
while  they  lived  at  Ordnance  Terrace,  he  had  noth- 
ing but  happiness  in  his  sunny  little  life.  His 
father  w^as  a  favorite  with  his  employers  in  the 
Chatham  Dockyard,  who  described  him  as  "a  fel- 
low of  infinite  humor,  chatty,  lively  and  agree- 
able." He  was  brimful  of  anecdote,  and  doubtless, 
in  describing  the  men  with  whom  he  was  thrown, 
unconsciously  gave  Charles  material  for  the  won- 
derful characters  which  were  to  delight  future 
generations.        * 

The  mind  of  this  ''  small  queer  boy  "  was  like 
a  sensitive  film,  and  the  impressions  thrown  upon 
it  were  thrown  out  again  with  added  brilliance; 
nothing  was  ever  forgotten,  and  Ordnance  Ter- 
race furnished  many  characters  and  localities.  In 
some  of  the  early  ''  Sketches  by  Boz,"  that  of  the 
Old  Lady  described  a  Mrs.  Newnham,  who  lived 
at  Number  5,  on  the  Terrace,  and  The  Half  Pay 


8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Captain  was  also  a  very  near  neighbor.  John 
Dickens  at  that  time  could  afford  to  keep  a  serv- 
ant, whose  name,  strange  to  say,  was  Mary  Weller ; 
not  so  strange,  either,  when  one  comes  to  think  of 
it,  for  the  boy  loved  the  strong,  capable  woman, 
who  stood  by  them  through  thick  and  thin,  and  it 
was  quite  natural  that  one  of  his  most  lovable  char- 
acters, Sam  Weller,  should  have  borne  the  same 
surname.  Names  meant  a  great  deal  to  the  boy, 
and  any  name  wdiich  was  especially  dear  to  him 
through  association,  we  find  many  times  repro- 
duced in  his  books.  The  name  of  Lucy,  his  first 
love,  occurs  in  five  of  his  books,  the  one  best  re- 
membered being  the  charming,  golden-haired 
Lucie  Manette,  the  heroine  of  ''  A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities. '^ 

Mary  Weller  was  most  probably  the  nurse  to 
whom  Baby  Charlie  took  his  first  steps,  and  many 
more  of  the  Dickens  children  were  nursed  by  her. 
She  married  a  shipwright  named  Thomas  Gibson, 
and  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Chatham,  long 
after  the  family  had  moved  away. 

Her  recollections  of  the  small  boy  and  his  golden- 
haired  sweetheart  are  very  vivid.  As  Dickens 
himself  says:  *' When  will  there  come  in  after  life, 
a  passion  so  earnest,  generous  and  true  as  theirs? 
What,  even  in  its  gentlest  realities,  can  have  the 
grace  and  charm  that  hover  round  such  fairy 
lovers  ?  " 

Perhaps  the  golden-haired  Lucy  was  in  his  mind 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  9 

when  describing  Little  Envly,  the  small  David's 
first  love.  Let  us  see  what  feelings  David  had  at 
the  advanced  age  of  seven  or  thereabout: 

"  Of  course  I  was  in  love  with  little  Em'ly.  I 
am  sure  I  loved  that  baby  quite  as  truly,  quite  as 
tenderly,  and  with  greater  purity  .  .  .  than 
can  enter  into  the  best  love  of  a  later  time  of  life 
.  .  .  I  am  sure  my  fancy  raised  up  something 
round  that  blue-eyed  mite  of  a  child  which  ethe- 
realized  and  made  a  very  angel  of  her.  If,  any 
sunny  forenoon,  she  had  spread  a  little  pair  of  wings 
and  flown  away  before  my  eyes,  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  regarded  it  as  much  more  than  I  had 
had  reason  to  expect. 

"  We  used  to  walk  about  that  dim  old  flat  at 
Yarmouth,  in  a  loving  manner,  hours  and  hours. 
The  days  sported  by  us,  as  if  Time  had  not  grown 
up  himself  yet,  but  were  a  child,  too,  and  always 
at  play.  I  told  Em'ly  I  adored  her,  and  that  un- 
less she  confessed  she  adored  me,  I  should  be 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  killing  myself  with  a 
sword.  She  said  she  did,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she 
did." 

Now,  this  thrilling  romance  was  certainly  a  rem- 
iniscence of  those  days  spent  near  the  angel  with 
the  "  blue  sash  and  shoes  to  match,"  and  eyes  bluer 
than  either.  The  walks  they  took  together  were 
round  Chatham,  and  sometimes  they  went  to  the 
Navy  Yard  to  watch  the  ship-building  and  the 
rope-making,  and  many  a  time  they  saw  the  new 


10  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ships  floated  out  upon  the  Medway,  which  carried 
them  to  sea.  Sometimes  John  Dickens  took  the 
children  and  their  friends  for  a  sail  on  the  Medway, 
on  the  Navy  Pay  Yacht,  Chatham^  when  he  went 
on  the  business  of  the  Pay  Office.  These  expedi- 
tions were  greatly  enjoyed,  although  there  were 
the  strictest  rules  as  to  behavior  while  on  board 
ship. 

The  Dickens  household,  when  they  lived  at  No. 
2,  Ordnance  Terrace,  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dickens,  Fanny,  Charles,  and  Letitia,  and  Mrs. 
Allen,  a  widowed  aunt,  a  sister  to  Mrs.  Dickens 
who  always  lived  with  them,  and  they  are  described 
as  "  a  most  genial,  lovable  family." 

Mary  Weller  had  charge  of  the  kitchen  as  well 
as  of  the  children,  and  she  tells  us :  "  Sometimes 
Charles  would  come  downstairs  and  say  to  me: 
*  Now,  Mary,  clear  the  kitchen,  we  are  going  to 
have  such  a  game ! '  And  thea  George  Stroughill 
would  come  in  with  his  Magic  Lantern,  and  they 
would  sing,  recite,  and  perform  parts  of  plays. 
Fanny  and  Charles  often  sang  together  at  this 
time,  Fanny  accompanying  on  the  pianoforte." 

At  eight  years  of  age,  Charles  Dickens  was  a 
great  reader.     Mary  Weller  says : 

"  Little  Charles  was  a  terrible  boy  to  read,  and 
his  custom  was  to  sit  with  his  book  in  his  left 
hand,  holding  his  wrist  with  his  right  hand,  and 
constantly  moving  it  up  and  down,  and  at  the  same 
time  sucking  his  tongue  " —  and  she  adds  that  he 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  II 

was  "  a  lively  boy,  of  a  good,  genial,  open  disposi- 
tion, and  not  quarrelsome,  as  most  children  are  at 
times." 

The  River  Medway  separates  Chatham  from^ 
Rochester,  the  city  of  cities  to  the  eyes  of  the  small 
boy,  for  it  had  a  theater,  where  they  gave  plays 
and  pantomimes  —  the  Theatre  Royal  it  was  called 
—  and  many  a  good  thing  Dickens  saw  there  in 
the  palmy  days  at  Ordnance  Terrace,  before  John 
Dickens  became  too  poor  to  give  his  children  pleas- 
ure. Here  he  saw  the  famous  clown,  Grimaldi, 
whose  life  he  afterwards  edited,  and  many  great 
and  noble  dramas;  and  many  great  actors  and  ac- 
tresses stirred  ambition  in  this  extremely  youthful 
mind. 

His  first  serious  bit  of  writing  was  a  tragedy 
called  "  Misnar,  the  Sultan  of  India,"  conceived 
and  written  at  the  age  of  nine,  and  he  developed 
a  taste  for  acting  which  stayed  with  him  during 
the  rest  of  his  life.  As  a  boy,  he  did  character 
sketches  which  delighted  his  companions,  and  as  a 
man,  his  acting  quite  equaled  the  work  of  many  a 
professional.  It  was  in  this  fashion  that  Dickens 
loved  to  entertain  his  friends,  and  his  memory 
could  go  back  to  those  earlier  days  when  he  and  his 
sister  Fanny  mounted  a  dining  table  for  a  stage, 
at  the  old  Mitre  Inn,  where  their  friends,  the 
Tribes,  Hved,  and  sang  all  sorts  of  duets,  sea  bal- 
lads being  the  most  popular. 

This  old  Mitre  Inn  was,  and  still  is,  one  of  the 


12  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

landmarks  of  Chatham.  It  was  also  a  posting- 
house,  that  is,  a  sort  of  way-station  for  stage 
coaches,  and  Mr.  Tribe  was  the  landlord  and 
owner.  The  fine  old  place  still  remains  in  his 
family,  standing  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  grounds, 
and  quite  unaltered  in  any  way. 

The  Dickens  family  and  the  Tribes  were  very 
intimate,  and  many  a  pleasant  evening  was  passed 
either  at  the  Inn  or  at  Ordnance  Terrace.  Mr. 
Robert  Langton,  who  has  given  us  a  most  delight- 
ful account  of  the  childhood  of  our  hero,  tells  us 
of  an  interesting  relic  in  the  possession  of  the 
Tribe  family.  ''  It  is  a  card  of  invitation  written 
by  Charles  when  between  eight  and  nine  years  of 
age: 

*  Master  and  Miss  Dickens  will 

be  pleased  to  have  the  company  of 

Master  and  Miss  Tribe  to  spend 

the  Evening  on    .     .     .     (date,  &c.).' " 

This  is  the  earliest  piece  of  writing  of  Charles 
Dickens  known  to  be  in  existence. 

Such  a  good  time  as  these  children  did  have! 
There  were  birthday  parties,  Twelfth  Night  parties, 
and  parties  just  for  no  occasion  at  all;  and  there 
were  never-to-be-forgotten  picnics  in  the  hay- 
field  opposite  the  Terrace,  a  beautiful  open  stretch 
of  country,  now  swallowed  up  by  the  Chatham 
Railway  Station.  And  Charles  and  his  pretty 
sister  were  often  called  upon  to  sing  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  company. 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  13 

There  is  no  mention  of  Charles  at  school  in  those 
early  years.  As  a  little  boy  he  was  quite  delicate, 
and  that  is  probably  the  reason  why  his  mother 
was  his  first  teacher.  Certain  it  is  that  he  learned 
to  read  at  a  very  early  age,  and  the  time  that  other 
small  boys  devoted  to  romping  and  racing,  was 
spent  by  him  in  devouring  some  old  forgotten  books 
of  his  father's.  He  tells  us  in  "  David  Copper- 
field  " : 

"  My  father  had  left  a  small  collection  of  books 
in  a  little  room  upstairs,  to  which  I  had  access  (for 
it  adjoined  my  own),  and  which  nobody  else  in  our 
house  ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed  little 
room  Roderick  Random,  Peregrine  Pickle,  Humph- 
rey Clinker,  Tom  Jones,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
Don  Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Robinson  Crusoe  came 
out,  a  glorious  host  to  keep  one  company." 

These  queerly  assorted  companions  did  him  no 
harm,  but  helped  to  feed  the  boy's  fancy,  and  the 
''  Arabian  Nights  "  and  the  "  Tales  of  the  Genii  " 
lent  added  fire  to  his  vivid  imagination.  Soon 
quite  naturally  he  himself  took  to  writing,  the  trag- 
edy of  "  Misnar  "  being  his  first  production. 

About  this  time  a  new  influence  came  into  his 
life.  His  aunt,  Mrs.  Allen,  married  Dr.  Lamert, 
an  army  surgeon,  and  his  son  James  became  quite 
intimate  with  the  Dickens  family.  He  had  a  taste 
for  theatricals,  and  soon  discovered  Charles's  talent 
in  that  direction.  James  Lamert's  father  had 
roomy  quarters  at  the  hospital,  which  gave  his  son 


14  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

plenty  of  space  to  plan  entertainments  and  little 
Charles  was  always  there  to  help.  Indeed,  it  was 
James  Lamert  himself  who  first  introduced  the 
child  to  the  delights  of  the  Theatre  Royal  at 
Rochester. 

Meanwhile,  life  at  Ordnance  Terrace  was  be- 
coming just  a  little  too  difficult.  John  Dickens, 
the  easy,  good-natured  spendthrift,  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  pinches  of  poverty.  He  had  lived  be- 
yond his  means,  and  in  1821  he  found  it  necessary 
to  move  into  a  much  smaller  house.  There  had 
been  a  new  little  brother  and  sister  born  at  No.  2, 
Ordnance  Terrace,  but  both  had  died,  so  in  the 
House  on  the  Brook,  as  it  was  called  because  of 
a  brook  which  once  flowed  by  it,  Charles  and  his 
two  little  sisters  began  their  altered  lives.  Mary 
Weller  shook  her  head  over  the  sad  change: 
*'  There  were,"  she  said,  "  no  such  juvenile  en- 
tertainments at  this  house  as  I  had  seen  at  the 
Terrace." 

It  was  a  small,  cramped  house,  and  the  children 
could  not  help  feeling  the  depressing  change.  But 
even  so,  there  were  compensations ;  the  house  was 
nearer  the  Dockyard,  and  the  small  boy,  left  to 
roam  at  will,  spent  much  time  at  this  interesting 
place.  As  he  grew  older  he  grew  somewhat 
stronger,  and  the  beautiful  Kentish  country  had 
the  greatest  fascination  for  him.  It  was  during 
his  tramps  about  here  that  he  first  began  to  build 
his  castles  in  the  air.     The  alluring  hillsides,  the 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  15 

green  valleys,  the  flash  and  glimmer  of  the  dis- 
tant Medway  as  it  ran  out  to  sea,  the  long  mys- 
terious stretch  of  level  far  away,  beyond  which  lay 
the  ocean,  and  beyond  that  —  the  world,  all  cast 
their  influence  upon  this  sensitive,  imaginative  lit- 
tle boy. 

This  was  Shakespeare's  country  (what  part  of 
England  is  not?)  — and  fat  old  Falstaff's  haunts, 
and  Gad's  Hill,  where  in  the  early  mornings  he 
and  his  brother  vagabonds  waylaid  and  robbed  the 
Canterbury  pilgrims  of  their  rich  offerings,  and 
stole  the  fat  purses  of  the  rich  traders  on  their  way 
to  London,  had  a  special  attraction  for  this  special 
small  boy,  who  vowed  in  his  ambitious  little  soul 
that  he  would  some  day  be  master  of  the  brick 
house   built  upon  its  heights. 

Gad's  Hill  was  originally  known  as  "  God's 
Hill,"  but  possibly  the  uncouth  tongue  of  the  com- 
mon folk  twisted  the  sound  of  it,  or,  even  more 
probably,  the  many  deeds  of  highway  robbery  were 
scarcely  in  keeping  with  the  name;  at  any  rate  it 
began  to  be  called  Gad's  Hill,  and  when  little 
Charles  had  scaled  its  "  gentle  eminence "  he 
looked  down  upon 

Cobham  Woods  to  the  right  —  on  the  opposite  shore 
Laindon  Hills  in  the  distance  —  ten  miles  off  or  more; 
Then  you've  Milton  and  Gravesend  behind  —  and  before 
You  can  see  almost  all  the  way  down  to  the  Nore ; 
,     .     .     so  charming  a  spot  —  it's  rarely  one's  lot 
To  see,  and  when  seen  it's  as  rarely  forgot. 


l6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

And  Dickens  never  did  forget  it.  Although  the 
time  was  soon  to  come  when  he  would  leave  this 
peaceful  rural  beauty  for  the  smoke  and  grime  of 
dingy  London,  the  memory  of  it  lingered  always 
with  him  and  haunted  every  book  he  wrote.  He 
writes  of  it  in  "  The  Uncommercial  Traveller " 
many  years  after. 

"  I  have  my  eye  on  a  piece  of  Kentish  road  bor- 
dered on  either  side  by  a  wood,  and  having  on  one 
hand,  between  the  road-dust  and  the  trees,  a  skirt- 
ing patch  of  grass.  Wild  flowers  grow  in  abun- 
dance on  this  spot,  and  it  lies  high  and  airy,  with 
a  distant  river  stealing  away  to  the  ocean  —  like 
a  man's  life.  To  gain  the  milestone  here,  which 
the  moss,  primroses,  violets,  blue-bells  and  wild 
roses  would  soon  render  illegible,  but  for  peering 
travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks,  you 
must  come  to  a  steep  hill,  come  which  way  you 
may." 

The  Falstaff  Inn  —  named  after  the  jolly  vaga- 
bond —  he  also  describes,  as  '*  a  little  hostelry 
which  no  man  possessed  of  a  penny  was  ever  known 
to  pass  in  warm  weather.  Before  its  entrance  are 
certain  pleasant  trimmed  limes ;  likewise  a  cool 
well,  with  so  musical  a  bucket-handle,  that  its  fall 
upon  the  bucket  rim  will  make  a  horse  prick  up 
his  ears  and  neigh  upon  the  droughty  road  half 
a  mile  off." 

Gad's  Hill  was  a  "  Robbing  Road,"  and  that  was 
probably  the  reason  why  little  Charles  Dickens  took 


IN  THE  VERY  BEGINNING.  17 

such  a  keen  delight  in  rambhng  there.  Doubtless 
Shakespeare's  immortal  footpads  lurked  in  the 
woods  which  bordered  the  roadway;  he  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  see  them  rush  out  upon  him 
and  demand  his  money  or  his  life.  Poor  little 
Charles !  He  would  only  have  had  to  turn  his 
pockets  inside-out,  and  they  would  have  passed 
him  by.  Indeed,  the  contents  of  all  the  pockets 
of  the  entire  Dickens  family  at  that  time,  would 
not  have  given  a  single  stalwart  robber  a  good 
square  meal. 

From  an  upper  window  in  the  side  of  the  little 
House  on  the  Brook,  the  children  could  look  out 
upon  the  parish  church  and  the  churchyard,  and 
at  night  Charles  and  Fanny,  always  chums  and 
comrades,  loved  to  gaze  upward  to  the  broad  ex- 
panse of  sky,  and  count  the  stars  and  single  out 
their  favorites.  In  "  A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star," 
written  years  afterward  when  his  favorite  sister 
was  dead,  Dickens  tells  us  about  it  in  his  own  beau- 
tiful way: 

"  There  was  one  clear,  shining  star  that  used  to 
come  out  in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near  the  church 
spire  above  the  graves.  It  was  larger  and  more 
beautiful,  they  thought,  than  all  the  others,  and 
every  night  they  watched  for  it,  standing,  hand 
in  hand,  at  a  window.  Whoever  saw  it  first  cried 
out,  '  I  see  the  star  1 '  and  often  they  cried  out 
together,  knowing  so  well  when  it  would  rise  and 
where.     So  they  grew  to  be  such  friends  with  it, 


l8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

that  before  lying  down  in  their  beds,  they  always 
looked  out  once  again  to  bid  it  good  night ;  and 
when  they  Avere  turning  round  to  sleep,  they  used 
to  say  — *  God  bless  the  star ! '  " 

All  the  hopeless  poverty  in  their  bare  little  room 
was  hidden  by  the  kindly  darkness.  The  children 
had  their  window  and  their  star,  and  a  certain 
golden  streak  of  poetry  in  their  baby  hearts,  which, 
all  unconsciously,  helped  them  always  to  look  above 
and  beyond. 

Especially  was  this  the  case  with  the  small  boy, 
whose  trials  were  about  to  begin.  Somewhere  in 
the  darkened,  dreary,  and  despairing  little  soul  of 
him,  there  was  a  window  through  which  he  could 
see  shimmering  in  the  distance  a  far-off  star. 
Sometimes  it  shone  clear  and  bright;  sometimes  it 
glistened  through  his  tears ;  but  it  was  there  — 
always  splendid  and  always  visible.  There  was 
never  a  day  that  he  did  not  think  of  it ;  nor  a  night 
that  he  could  not  see  it  if  he  closed  his  eyes,  and 
many  a  time  before  he  slept,  he  stretched  out  his 
tired  arms  and  whispered  in  the  silence :  "  God 
bless  the  star !  " 


CHAPTER    11. 

THE     REAL     DAVID     COPPERFIELD. 


HARLES  DICKENS  was  about  nine 
years  old  when  he  had  his  first  brief 
taste  of  school  life.  His  mother,  with 
her  hands  full  of  household  cares  and 
duties,  had  little  time  for  anything  else,  and  the 
teaching,  upon  which  the  boy  had  grown  to  depend, 
had  to  give  place  to  the  more  urgent  needs  of  the 
family.  In  some  vague  way,  the  persistent,  eager 
young  mind  resented  this;  it  was  beginning  to  stir 
uneasily,  to  have  longings  toward  wider  wisdom 
than  could  be  found  among  the  old  books. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  William  Giles, 
son  of  Rev.  William  Giles,  the  minister  of  Provi- 
dence Chapel  on  the  Brook,  opened  a  small  select 
school,  consisting  of  his  own  younger  brothers  and 
sisters,  the  children  of  some  of  the  garrison  officers, 
and  several  of  the  neighbors'  children,  including 
Charles  and  his  sister  Fanny.  Mr.  Giles  was  an 
Oxford  man,  well-educated  and  a  conscientious 
teacher,  and  from  the  beginning,  the  bright  appear- 
ance and  the  quick  intelligence  of  the  boy  impressed 
him  greatly.  He  noted  with  delight  the  rapid 
progress  of  his  small  pupil,  and  gave  him  every 

19 


20  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

encouragement.  Indeed,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  wonderful  English  of  the  great  author  had 
its  roots  in  Mr.  Giles's  careful  teaching  and  train- 
ing. 

Mr.  Giles's  school  was  one  of  the  few  of  that 
time  which  left  a  wholesome  remembrance  in 
Dickens's  mind.  He  has  drawn  a  loving  picture 
of  it  in  "  David  Copperfield  "  in  the  shape  of  Dr. 
Strong's  School. 

"  It  was  very  gravely  and  decorously  ordered," 
he  tells  us,  "  and  on  a  sound  system ;  with  an  appeal 
in  everything  to  the  honor  and  good  faith  of  the 
boys,  and  an  avowed  intention  to  rely  on  the  pos- 
session of  those  qualities,  unless  they  proved  them- 
selves unworthy  of  it,  which  worked  wonders." 

Mr.  Giles  must  have  commanded  great  admira- 
tion and  respect  among  his  pupils,  if  David's  Dr. 
Strong  might  serve  as  a  portrait. 

"  The  Doctor  himself  was  the  idol  of  the  whole 
school;  and  it  must  have  been  a  badly  composed 
school,  if  he  had  been  anything  else,  for  he  was 
the  kindest  of  men ;  with  a  simple  faith  in  him  that 
might  have  touched  the  stone  hearts  of  the  very 
urns  upon  the  wall." 

Charles  Dickens,  as  a  schoolboy,  must  have  been 
a  most  attractive  youngster.  He  had  a  brilliant, 
sensitive  face,  with  long,  curly,  light  hair,  which 
fell  in  ringlets  over  his  shoulders.  Boys  of  that 
period  must  have  looked  very  much  like  little  old 
men  cut  short.     They  wore  long  and  very  snug- 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  21 

fitting  trousers,  below  which  peeped  their  httle 
white-stockinged,  sHppered  feet,  and  over  their 
short,  skimp  jackets,  fell  broad  Eton  collars.  The 
boys  of  Mr.  Giles's  school  wore  tall  white  beaver 
hats,  so  that  in  the  streets  they  looked  more  than 
ever  like  old  men.  But  they  were  boys,  bless  you! 
happy,  hearty,  romp-loving  boys,  learning  in  the 
healthy  atmosphere  of  a  good  man's  influence. 

Mr.  Giles  was  quite  noted  in  the  small  town  and 
its  neighborhood,  as  a  fine  reader  and  elocutionist, 
and  of  course  these  accomplishments  were  made 
the  most  of  in  the  school.  That  Charles  took 
advantage  of  this  rare  opportunity  for  cultivating 
his  own  talent,  goes  without  saying. 

"  Elocution  "  nowadays  is  rather  laughed  at  as 
something  too  high-flown  and  absurd  to  be  called 
a  study,  but  for  the  child  of  a  hundred  years  ago, 
whose  very  timidity  in  speaking  before  his  elders 
gave  a  hesitating  squeak  to  his  voice,  it  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  have  it  trained  a  little,  and  de- 
claiming and  oratory  were  the  delight  of  the  average 
schoolboy.  Charles  Dickens  excelled  in  everything 
of  this  kind,  and  it  was  his  pleasure  to  amuse  him- 
self and  his  companions,  for  his  was  a  genial  little 
soul,  and  despite  the  fact  that  he  was  small  and 
somewhat  delicate,  his  quick  wit  and  originality 
made  him  a  leader  among  his  mates. 

The  Dickens  children  knew  nothing  of  the  mis- 
fortunes  which  were   crowding  down   upon   their 

father.     Being   always   poor,    the   knowledge  that 
3 


22  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

they  were  poorer  did  not  seem  to  weigh  upon  their 
spirits.  Even  when  he  was  recalled  to  London 
(1822)  they  little  dreamed  of  the  trials  in  store 
for  them,  and  John  Dickens  himself,  always  happy, 
always  hopeful,  always  ready  for  something  to 
''  turn  up,"  broke  up  his  home  on  the  Brook  on 
very  short  notice,  disposed  of  some  of  his  goods 
and  chattels  (for  it  was  not  so  easy  then  to  ship 
furniture  from  place  to  place  as  it  is  now),  and 
the  whole  family,  including  a  small  servant-girl 
from  the  Chatham  workhouse,  went  by  coach  to 
London,  sending  what  heayy  goods  they  could  not 
conveniently  part  with,  by  water. 

The  only  one  left  out  of  this  family  party  was 
Charles.  Whether  it  was  his  own  wish,  or  that  the 
coach  was  too  crowded  for  even  one  more  very  small 
boy,  it  is  hard  to  say ;  at  any  rate  he  stayed  behind 
with  the  schoolmaster,  and  no  doubt  in  his  boy- 
fashion,  said  farewell  to  all  his  old,  much-loved 
haunts,  the  Dockyard,  the  Pay  Office,  the  old 
Rochester  Bridge,  over  which  he  had  hung  and 
dreamed  so  many  times,  the  distant  hills,  the  shim- 
mering Med  way.  But  at  last  came  the  day  of 
parting,  and  the  small  boy,  in  the  white  beaver, 
bade  a  tearful  good-by  to  his  friends,  and  climbed 
into  the  coach  which  was  to  take  him  to  London. 

Many  years  later,  in  an  article  called  "  Dull- 
borough  Town  "  (meaning  dear  old  placid,  hum- 
drum Chatham)  he  tells  us  of  this  journey: 

"  As  I  left  Dullbo rough  in  the  days  when  there 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  23 

were  no  railroads  in  the  land,  I  left  it  in  a  stage- 
coach. Through  all  the  years  that  have  since 
passed,  have  I  ever  lost  the  smell  of  the  damp 
straw  in  which  I  was  packed  —  like  game  —  and 
forwarded,  carriage  paid  to  the  Cross  Keys,  Wood 
Street,  Cheapside,  London?  There  w^as  no  other 
inside  passenger,  and  I  consumed  my  sandwiches 
in  soHtude  and  dreariness,  and  it  rained  hard  all 
the  way,  and  I  thought  life  sloppier  than  I  had 
expected  to  find  it.  The  coach  that  carried  me 
away  w^as  melodiously  called  Timpson's  Blue-eyed 
Maid,  and  belonged  to  Timpson  at  the  coach  office 
up  street." 

The  name  Timpson  is  the  thin  disguise  of  one 
Simpson,  the  real  owner  of  the  real  Blue-eyed  Maid. 
Another  coach  going  to  London  from  Rochester 
was  the  Commodore  Coach,  driven  by  a  well-known 
character,  old  Cholmeley  (or  Chumley),  *' who 
was  entrusted  wdth  all  the  young  ladies  going  to 
town.  He  made  that  celebrated  speech  about 
coaches,  when  railways  came  in.  *  If  a  railway 
blows  up  —  where  are  ye?  Now,  if  a  coach  up- 
sets, there  ye  are ! '  "  which  was  very  comforting 
at  any  rate.  This  old  coach  driver  lived  later,  in 
the  person  of  Tony  VVeller,  the  father  of  Sam, 
who  drove  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends. 

The  heavy,  lumbering  traveling  coach  figures 
in  many  of  Dickens's  novels.  It  carried  little 
David  Copperfield  to  London,  or  at  least  to  the 
school  near  London,  and  during  the  holidays  an- 


24  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Other  coach  brought  him  home,  and  again,  when 
his  mother  died,  he  left  Salem  School  in  a  great 
night  coach,  himself  a  shivering,  frightened  child, 
stifling  his  sobs  in  the  farthest  corner.  Poor  little 
David!  he  knew  very  well  what  he  was  going  to — 
a  darkened  home  where  everyone  disliked  him, 
where  he  would  be  pushed  and  badgered,  and  at 
last  thrust  out.  But  little  Charles  Dickens  knew 
nothing  of  this  kind,  though,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  he  certainly  was  summoned  to  London  on 
account  of  a  death  in  his  family,  and  his  journey 
could  not  have  been  of  the  happiest.  He  himself 
says: 

"  I  was  taken  home,  and  there  was  Debt  at 
home,  as  well  as  Death  [a  baby  brother],  and  we 
had  a  sale  there.  My  own  little  bed  was  so  super- 
ciliously looked  upon  by  a  power  unknown  to  me, 
hazily  called  *  The  Trade,'  that  a  brass  coal-scuttle, 
a  roasting-jack,  and  a  bird  cage  were  obliged  to 
be  put  into  it  to  make  a  *  Lot '  of  it,  and  then  it 
went  for  a  song  —  so  I  heard  mentioned,  and  I 
wondered  what  song  —  and  thought  what  a  dismal 
song  it  must  have  been  to  sing." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  sad  change  for  this  little  coun- 
try boy,  coming  fresh  from  green  fields  and  smiling 
hillsides,  where  the  breath  of  the  early  spring  was 
waking  the  flowers,  to  this  mean  home  in  Bayham 
Street,  Camden  Town,  where  their  next-door 
neighbor  was  a  washerwoman,  and  a  Bow  Street 
officer  lived  over  the  way.     It  was  a  poor  locality 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  25 

with  nothing  to  attract  an  imaginative,  beauty- 
loving  child.  At  night  the  street  was  very  dark, 
for  gas  was  unknown,  and  the  little  twinkling  oil 
lamps  used  in  the  city  did  not  shed  a  very  brilliant 
light.  But  at  least  from  this  unattractive  dismal 
spot,  one  could  see  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul's  looming 
through  the  smoke  of  the  city,  and  that  was  some- 
thing to  think  about  in  the  little  back  garret  in 
Bayham  Street. 

We  can  fancy  him  lying  awake,  lonely  and  mis- 
erable, thinking  over  the  family  troubles  and  won- 
dering where  they  would  end,  wondering,  too,  if 
he  should  ever  be  sent  to  another  school,  for  he 
longed  despairingly  to  be  "  taught  something  any- 
where !  "  He  felt  this  all  the  more  keenly  because 
his  sister  Fanny,  at  this  time,  was  admitted  as  a 
pupil  at  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music.  This  was 
a  great  honor,  which  the  little  girl  richly  deserved, 
and  it  gave  her  four  years'  careful  training.  But 
it  was  then  that  little  Charles  saw  how  lightly  his 
own  education  was  looked  upon  by  those  who 
should  have  seen  to  it. 

It  was  in  this  house  that  the  boy  began  all  un- 
consciously to  study  the  people  around  him,  and 
to  know  something  of  the  good  qualities  which 
shone  out  among  the  poor  and  needy  folk,  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  murky  by-ways  of  London.  Un- 
consciously, indeed,  the  delicate  little  chap  was 
educating  himself  in  those  hard  days.  Withdrawn 
as  he  was  from  any  congenial  companions  in  Bay- 


£26  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ham  Street,  he  was  thrown  upon  his  own  resources, 
for  his  father  seemed  to  forget  that  he  owed  his 
eldest  son  at  least  an  education.  His  time  instead 
was  spent  in  cleaning  boots,  running  errands,  and 
looking  after  the  younger  children. 

Dickens  always  spoke  of  his  father  with  love 
and  respect,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  all  through 
the  hardships  of  this  never- forgotten  period,  the 
easy  good-nature  of  John  Dickens,  coupled  with 
his  empty  pocket-book  and  his  ever-hopeful  spirit, 
inspired  the  portrait  of  Wilkins  Micazvber,  Esq., 
that  lovable,  ne'er-do-weel,  who  brightened  many 
dark  days  for  little  David  Copperiield. 

There  was  some  fun  to  be  had  even  in  the 
cramped  quarters  at  Bayham  Street,  for  James 
Lamert,  who  was  lodging  with  them,  built  a  small 
theater  for  him,  which  was  a  great  diversion,  and 
the  scene  of  some  remarkable  acting.  Besides, 
there  were  occasional  delightful  visits  to  his  god- 
father, Christopher  Huffam,  who  took  great  pride 
in  the  comic  songs  that  Master  Charles  sang  so 
well.  Dickens  himself  feared  that  in  those  early 
days  ^'  he  must  have  been  a  horrible  little  nuisance 
to  many  unoffending  grown-up  people  who  were 
called  upon  to  admire  him." 

These  were  bright  spots  in  the  darkest  period 
of  our  hero's  life.     In  this  straitened  household, 
things  went  from  bad  to  worse,  and  an  awful  pos- 
sibility loomed  up  before  the  family.     If,  after  a ' 
certain  time,  John  Dickens  could  not  pay  his  debts, 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  27 

the  bailiffs  would  arrest  him  and  he  would  be  shut 
up  in  a  debtor's  prison. 

There  were  many  such  prisons  in  England,  into 
which  strong,  active  men  were  shoved  by  their 
creditors,  until  they  could  be  satisfied,  thus  depriv- 
ing the  poor  unfortunates  of  any  means  of  getting 
out  of  their  trouble,  and  often  keeping  them  there 
for  many  years.  It  was  to  ward  off  this  final  blow 
that  Mrs.  Dickens  decided  to  move  into  a  better 
house,  in  a  better  street,  and  open  a  school  for 
young  ladies.  This  they  accordingly  did  in  1824, 
renting  a  house  at  No.  4,  Gower  Street.  Poor 
lady!  she  put  a  big  brass  plate  on  her  front  door, 
on  which  was  engraved  "  Mrs.  Dickens'  Establish- 
ment for  Young  Ladies,"  just  as  poor  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber  did  in  "  David  Copperfield,"  and  David  further 
adds :  "  I  never  found  that  any  young  ladies  had 
ever  been  there;  or  that  any  young  lady  ever  came 
or  proposed  to  come;  or  that  the  least  preparation 
w^as  ever  made  to  receive  any  young  lady."  Though 
the  energetic  little  Charles  distributed  "  at  a  great 
many  doors,  a  great  many  circulars,"  the  Young 
Ladies'  School  was  never  more  than  a  name;  the 
plan  simply  fell  through,  and  the  creditors  hurried 
poor  John  Dickens  off  to  prison,  his  last  words 
being  like  those  of  the  immortal  Mr.  Micawherj 
who  declared  that  the  sun  was  set  upon  him  for- 
ever. 

Poor  little  broken-hearted  boy!  He  thought 
that  surely,  for  the  ill-fated  house  of  Dickens,  the 


28  CHA.RLES  DICKENS. 

end  was  not  far  off.  By  degrees,  they  sold  every- 
thing of  any  value,  the  child  himself  acting  as  spe- 
cial agent.  All  the  dear  books  he  had  brought 
from  Chatham  went  along  with  their  few  valu- 
ables, until  at  last  nothing  remained  but  some  bits 
of  furniture,  and  the  empty  house  was  shut  up  — 
save  the  two  parlors  where  the  whole  family  en- 
camped, including  the  little  servant  from  the 
Chatham  workhouse,  who  later  served  as  a  model 
for  some  of  Dickens's  best  known  characters. 

And  now  came  the  saddest  experience  of  his 
whole  life  —  one  which  he  never  liked  to  remem- 
ber, and  to  which  he  never  alluded  in  all  the  bright 
and  prosperous  years  which  followed.  The  family 
was  in  such  dire  need  that  it  became  necessary  for 
Charles  to  go  to  work,  and  James  Lamert,  through 
the  very  kindest  of  motives,  procured  a  situation 
for  him  in  a  blacking-warehouse,  of  which  he  was 
the  chief  manager.  There  were  not  many  posi- 
tions open  to  a  boy  so  young  and  so  sm?ill,  and  the 
pittance  of  six  or  seven  shillings  a  week  was  thank- 
fully accepted  by  his  parents. 

No  one  will  ever  know  what  the  delicate,  sensi- 
tive child  endured  during  the  months  which  fol- 
lowed. His  place  of  business  was  "  a  crazy,  tum- 
ble-down old  house,  overrun  with  rats,"  close  by 
the  river,  and  his  work,  all  the  long  day,  was  to 
cover  the  pots  of  paste-blacking,  first  with  oil  paper, 
then  with  blue  paper;  to  tie  them  with  a  string  and 
clip  them  neatly  all  round,  and  finally  to  attach  a 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  29 

printed  label  to  each  bottle.  He  felt  like  a  little 
drudge  as,  hour  after  hour,  he  worked  away,  among 
companions  of  such  a  low  class  that  he  shrank  in 
horror  from  associating  with  them. 

Yet,  true  to  his  nature,  there  was  nothing  this 
boy  undertook  to  do  that  he  did  not  do  with  his 
whole  soul,  and  do  well.  And  besides,  distasteful 
as  his  work  was,  the  idea  of  being  the  proud  pos- 
sessor of  so  many  shillings  a  week  —  his  own  earn- 
ings—  made  him  feel  very  grown-up  and  manly. 
He  would  look  in  the  shop  windows  as  he  passed 
along,  his  fortune  jingling  in  his  pockets,  and  think 
what  it  might  buy. 

But  in  truth,  it  was  a  great  help  to  the  family, 
and  it  was  hoarded  and  spent  very  carefully  each 
week,  for  they  were  all  learning  the  hard  lesson 
of  poverty  and  privation.  It  was  a  new  sort  of 
school  for  our  small  Charles,  but  he  was  quite  in 
earnest  when  he  once  said  he  was  willing  "  to  be 
taught  something  anywhere,"  and  the  blacking- 
warehouse  served  its  purpose  in  a  certain  way. 

When  writing  "  David  Copperfield  "  the  mem- 
ory of  this  dark  page  of  his  own  life  overflowed, 
and  in  Chapter  XI,  he  gives  us  a  description  of 
how  poor  little  David  was  thrust  by  his  stepfather, 
Mr.  Miirdstone,  into  a  similar  position.  Even 
David  himself  wrote  of  this  experience  only  after 
the  passing  of  many  years.  He  says :  "  I  know 
enough  of  the  world  now,  to  have  almost  lost  the 
capacity  of  being  much  surprised  by  anything;  but 


30  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

it  is  a  matter  of  some  surprise  to  me  even  now, 
that  I  can  have  been  so  easily  thrown  away  at  such 
an  age.  A  child  of  excellent  abilities,  and  with 
strong  powers  of  observation,  quick,  eager,  delicate, 
and  soon  hurt  bodily  or  m.entally,  it  seems  wonder- 
ful to  me  that  nobody  should  have  made  any  sign 
in  my  behalf.  But  none  was  made;  and  I  became, 
at  ten  years  old,  a  little  laboring  hind  in  the  service 
of  Murdstone  and  Grinby." 

In  describing  their  warehouse,  he  gives  the  exact 
location  of  the  blacking-warehouse. 

''  It  was  down  in  Blackfriars.  Modern  improve- 
ments have  altered  the  place;  but  it  was  the  last 
house  at  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  street,  curving 
down  hill  to  the  river,  with  some  stairs  at  the 
end,  where  people  took  boat.  It  w^as  a  crazy  old 
house,  with  a  w^harf  of  its  own,  abutting  on  the 
water  when  the  tide  was  in,  and  on  the  mud  when 
the  tide  was  out,  and  literally  overrun  with  rats. 
Its  paneled  rooms,  discolored  with  the  dirt  and 
smoke  of  a  hundred  years,  I  daresay;  its  decaying 
floors  and  staircase;  the  squeaking  and  scuffling  of 
the  old  gray  rats  down  in  the  cellars ;  and  the  dirt 
and  rottenness  of  the  place  .  .  .  are  all  before 
me,  just  as  they  were  in  the  evil  hour  when  I  went 
among  them  for  the  first  time. 

''  No  words  can  express  the  agony  of  my  soul, 
as  I  sunk  into  this  companionship  —  compared 
these  henceforth  everyday  associates  with  those 
of   my   happier   childhood.     .     .     .     and    felt   my 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  3I 

hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and  distin- 
guished man  crushed  in  my  bosom.  The  deep 
remembrance  of  the  sense  I  had  of  being  utterly 
without  hope  now  —  of  the  shame  I  felt  in  my 
position  —  of  the  misery  it  was  to  my  young  heart 
to  believe  that  day  by  day,  what  I  had  learned,  and 
thought,  and  delighted  in,  and  raised  my  fancy  and 
my  emulation  up  by,  would  pass  away  from  me, 
little  by  little,  never  to  be  brought  back  any  more  — 
cannot  be  written." 

Poor  little  Dazid  —  poor  little  Charles!  Yet, 
after  all,  David  was  more  to  be  pitied;  he  had  no 
mother  nor  father  —  no  brothers  and  sisters  —  no 
one,  indeed,  just  then,  who  cared  whether  he  lived 
or  died,  while  the  real  boy  was  blessed  with  more 
family  than  he  could  conveniently  support  on  six 
shillings  a  week,  and  a  fund  of  never- failing  humor 
and  drollery,  that  always  managed  to  get  on  top 
somehow. 

He  describes  his  companions  very  much  as  David 
did,  only  the  boy  with  "  the  ragged  apron  and  paper 
cap  "  was  really  named  Bob  Fagin  (a  name  which 
Dickens  used  afterw^ards  in  "Oliver  Twist")  and 
his  other  companion  was  named  Paul  Green,  though 
he  was  generally  called  "  Poll "  Green. 

Both  were  regular  London  street-boys,  but  kind- 
hearted  in  their  rough  way,  and  once  when  "  the 
little  gentleman,"  as  they  called  him,  had  one  of 
his  childish  attacks,  they  made  a  bed  for  him  on 
the  floor  of  the  counting-house,  and  nursed  him  as 


32  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

tenderly  as  a  couple  of  women.  Big  Bob  Fagin 
would  not  even  let  him  go  home  alone  that  night, 
which  was  rather  unfortunate,  as  the  proud  child 
did  not  want  anyone  to  know  that  his  father  was 
in  prison,  and  that  he  had  a  little  room  just  out- 
side, in  the  very  shadow  of  it.  ' 

For  by  this  time  Mrs.  Dickens  found  that  it 
would  save  expense  to  move  into  the  Marshalsea 

—  as  the  prison  was  called  —  and  share  her  hus- 
band's quarters  until  he  was  able  to  secure  his 
release.  So  she  and  all  the  children  but  Charles 
and  his  sister  Fanny  —  who  was  in  the  Academy  — 
took  up  their  residence  in  the  old  prison,  while 
Charles  had  this  near-by  room,  which  enabled  him 
to  take  his  breakfast  with  his  own  family,  as  soon 
as  the  prison  gates  were  opened  in  the  mornings. 

A  prison  sounds  like  a  very  terrible  spot  to  most 
of  us,  who  know  it  only  as  a  place  where  very 
wicked  people  are  shut  up  as  a  punishment.  But 
the  old-fashioned  debtors'  prisons  —  such  as  the 
Marshalsea,  and  Fleet  Prison,  and  the  King's  Bench 

—  harbored  only  those  who  were  unfortunate 
enough  not  to  be  able  to  pay  their  debts,  and  they 
were  simply  locked  up  by  order  of  their  creditors 
until  they  were  ready  to  settle  in  some  way. 

Charles's  first  lodging,  after  the  Gower  Street 
house  was  given  up,  was  with  a  Mrs.  Roylance, 
whom  the  family  knew  very  well,  and  who  sup- 
ported herself  by  taking  in  little  children  to  board, 
who  —  for  one  reason  or  another  —  had  no  one  to 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  33 

take  care  of  them;  and  it  was  this  same  lady  whom 
Charles  tucked  away  in  that  queer  storehouse  which 
he  called  his  mind,  as  the  original  of  Mrs.  Pip  chin, 
the  reduced  lady  in  "  Dombey  and  Son,"  to  whose 
house  Little  Paul  and  Florence  were  sent  to  board. 

This  small  boy  of  ten  then  began  housekeeping 
on  his-  own  account;  he  provided  himself  in  the 
morning  with  a  penny  cottage  loaf  and  a  penny- 
worth of  milk,  and  he  always  kept  another  loaf  and 
a  small  piece  of  cheese  in  a  certain  cupboard  for 
his  supper  when  he  came  home,  and  from  Monday 
morning  until  Saturday  night,  the  little  fellow  lived 
his  life  quite  by  himself,  with  no  glimpse  of  his 
family  until  Sunday  united  them  all  at  the  Marshal- 
sea.  His  lodging  was  paid  for  by  his  father,  who 
was  in  receipt  of  a  small  pension  from  Somerset 
House,  for  his  long  service  in  the  Pay  Office;  his 
clothes  were  attended  to  by  his  mother  or  Mrs. 
Roylance,  but  for  the  rest  he  was  master  of  him- 
self—  body  and  soul.  He  could  go  and  come 
when  he  liked,  and  it  mattered  not  a  whit  to  any- 
body. Many  and  many  a  time  —  in  his  loneliness 
—  he  sobbed  himself  to  sleep,  and  the  wonder  of 
it  all  is  how,  with  such  a  responsibility,  the  small 
boy  of  ten  could  manage  to  keep  himself,  as  he 
did,  free  from  the  soil  and  stains  of  a  big  city. 

His  way  to  and  from  his  work  lay  along  some 
of  the  hopeless  by-ways  o.f  London ;  he  peeped  into 
alleys  where  poverty  and  misery  went  hand  in 
hand ;  he  saw  the  river  at  its  darkest  and  dismallest 


34  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

—  he  worked,  indeed,  in  the  dirt  and  slime  of  it  — 
yet  through  all,  he  passed  with  unspoiled  inno- 
cence, though  the  memory  of  these  things  crept 
into  every  book  he  wrote ;  and  there  was  never  a 
little  boy  fashioned  by  his  pen  and  brain  whose 
pathetic  little  figure  did  not  bear  the  marks  of  this 
experience. 

One  thing  could  be  remedied,  however  —  the 
absolute  separation  from  his  family.  His  lodg- 
ing-place was  too  far  away  to  see  them  more  than 
once  a  week,  and  so  on  one  memorable  Sunday  he 
"  had  it  out  "  with  his  father,  and  probably  for  the 
first  time  John  Dickens  knew  something  of  the 
tumult  which  was  stirring  the  childish  heart.  Per- 
haps he  realized  for  the  first  time  how  awful  it  is 
to  be  lonely  and  desolate  when  one  is  only  ten  years 
old  and  has  to  take  care  of  oneself.  At  any  rate 
a  lodging  was  found  for  him  in  Lant  Street,  nearer 
the  prison  —  an  attic  room,  with  a  pleasing  view 
of  a  timber-yard,  but  a  "  paradise  "  to  the  boy,  who 
could  easily  get  to  the  Marshalsea  for  breakfast. 
His  landlord  —  a  lame,  fat,  good-natured  old  gen- 
tleman—  and  his  quiet  old  wife,  were  very  kind 
to  him;  there  was  a  grown-up  son  besides,  and  we 
can  remember  them  all  better  as  the  Garland  family 
in  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop." 

Indeed,  no  human  being  ever  passed  unnoticed 
before  those  observing  young  eyes,  and  as  early 
as  this  he  began  jotting  down  little  rough  sketches 
of  people  and  things,  but  generally  people.     These 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  35 

were  most  probably  stuffed  in  his  trousers  pockets 
or  in  some  hiding-place  known  only  to  childhood  — 
and  more  especially  to  boyhood  —  and  quite  as 
probably  forgotten  or  thrown  away,  for  no  record 
of  any  early  bits  of  childish  writing  has  been  handed 
down  to  us.  Indeed,  between  the  ages  of  ten  and 
twelve,  business  cares  were  too  heavy  even  to  allow 
time  for  thought. 

His  greatest  treats  in  those  days  were  his  Satur- 
day nights.  He  got  off  early  from  his  work,  and 
usually  strolled  home  through  a  well-known  street, 
where  there  were  show-vans  at  the  corner,  and 
where  for  a  very  small  sum  he  could  see  the  ''  Fat- 
pig,"  the  *^  Wild-Indian "  and  the  "Little-lady," 
all  dreams  of  the  street-boy  of  those  days.  Often 
he  would  be  tempted  to  buy  the  stale  pastry  dis- 
played in  the  bakers'  windows,  and  there  was  a 
favorite  pudding  to  be  had  at  a  penny  a  slice  — 
very  heavy  and  very  flabby  —  with  raisins  stuck 
in  it,  but  substantial  enough  to  give  him  a  dinner. 

The  boys  in  the  blacking-warehouse  had  half  an 
hour  for  tea.  \\'hen  little  Charles  had  money 
enough  he  used  to  get  a  half  a  pint  of  coffee  and 
a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  when  he  had  no 
money,  he  used  to  go  to  the  Covent-Garden  market 
and  stare  at  the  pineapples.  One  coffee-room  he 
remembers  particularly;  it  had  an  oval  glass  in  the 
door,  on  which  was  painted  "  COFFEE-ROOM." 
Inside,  with  the  door  shut  it  read  backwards  thus, 
'' MOOR-EEFFOC,"   and   no   matter   how   often, 


2,^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

in  after  years,  Dickens  saw  that  same  transforma- 
tion, the  little  boy  —  lonely  and  pathetic  —  munch- 
ing his  slice  of  bread  and  drinking  his  coffee,  rose 
up  before  him  with  startling  distinctness.  But  of 
these  things  he  never  spoke  in  after  years ;  even  to 
his  own  family  his  lips  were  sealed;  for  he  had 
worn  the  chains  of  a  slave  in  that  year  of  servitude, 
as  surely  as  if  they  had  hung  in  iron  fastness  about 
his  small  wrists. 

How  long  he  stayed  in  the  warehouse  he  was 
never  quite  sure;  a  year  was  the  outside  limit,  and 
yet  each  month  had  seemed  an  age  in  itself,  but  his 
release  came  in  a  sudden  way,  as  these  things  usually 
happen.  His  father  had  most  unexpectedly  come 
into  possession  of  a  small  legacy,  which  enabled 
him  to  pay  his  debts  and  get  out  of  prison.  Of 
course  there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  family,  and 
even  Charles  began  to  look  forward  again  to  some- 
thing more  than  his  daily  drudgery.  He  was  not 
a  boy  who  said  very  much;  very  quick  to  see  and 
feel  himself,  he  gave  people  credit  for  feelings  they 
never  possessed,  and  as  the  weeks  went  by,  it  was 
clearly  to  be  seen  that  his  position  at  the  warehouse 
was  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course  and  that  there 
was  no  idea  of  his  giving  it  up. 

A  sort  of  dumb  despair  took  hold  of  the  child, 
and  when  he  went  with  the  others  to  see  his  sister 
Fanny  take  a  prize  at  the  Academy,  his  poor  little 
heart  was  torn  between  his  pride  in  her  and  his 
misery  over  his  own  seemingly  hopeless   lot.     It 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  37 

was  not  envy,  for  the  brother  and  sister  were  always 
very  close  in  their  love  for  each  other,  but  the  boy, 
too,  was  ambitious,  and  tying  and  labeling  black- 
ing-bottles all  day  long  seemed  a  very  poor  future 
indeed. 

He  grew  to  be  dexterous  in  handling  his  work, 
and  he  and  Bob  Fagin  —  who  worked  near  a  win- 
dow—  always  attracted  a  little  crowd  of  curious 
people.  By  chance  one  day,  his  father  came  to  the 
warehouse,  passing  through  the  throng  of  onlook- 
ers, and  something  like  shame  must  have  touched 
this  good-humored,  easy-going  man.  The  fact 
that  his  own  son  was  doing  work  which  he  himself 
would  have  scorned,  woke  him  to  a  sense  of  the 
injustice  which  had  been  done.  Soon  after  that, 
he  wrote  James  Lamert  a  letter,  no  doubt  finding 
fault  with  the  position  Charles  held  in  the  employ 
of  one  so  closely  connected  with  the  family,  and 
the  result  was  a  quarrel  and  Charles's  dismissal 
from  the  warehouse.  He  could  scarcely  believe  his 
senses  as  he  walked  home  that  last  night.  The  relief 
was  almost  painful,  and  when  his  father  announced 
that  he  was  to  go  to  school,  no  doubt  the  small  boy 
felt  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  really  come. 

He  was  not  quite  twelve  when  he  left  the  ware- 
house —  and  still  very  small  for  his  age  —  and  from 
that  time  this  dreadful  experience  was  blotted  from 
all  their  lives.  His  father  and  mother  never 
referred  to  it  in  any  way,  and  the  boy  himself 
pushed  it  far  behind  him.  It  gave  a  touch  of  re- 
4 


38  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

serve  to  this  otherwise  genial  and  sociable  young- 
ster; it  also  gave  a  manly  self-reliance  that  pulled 
him  later  through  many  difficulties;  and  also  a 
strong,  set  purpose  to  succeed,  while  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  memory  were  hidden  the  shadowy 
figures  of  his  working  companions,  ready  to  rise 
out  of  the  mists  and  become  living  realities  at  the 
touch  of  his  magic  pen. 

And  that  pen,  too  —  though  probably  it  was  only 
a  pencil  in  the  small  work-stained  hand  —  had  not 
been  idle.  Life  in  the  Marshalsea  Prison  —  at 
least,  what  time  he  spent  there  —  had  been  more 
interesting  than  life  at  the  blacking-warehouse,  and 
the  many  queer  people  he  had  met  there  were  a 
never-ending  source  of  amusement.  The  char- 
acter of  Wilkins  Micawher  grew  day  by  day,  as  the 
quiet  little  son  sat  apart  and  watched  his  genial, 
happy-go-lucky  father,  whom  he  loved ;  and  in  spite 
of  much  that  we  may  find  to  laugh  at  and  shake 
our  heads  over  in  Mr.  Micazvher,  we,  too,  cannot 
help  loving  a  character  drawn  with  such  gentle 
accuracy.  In  describing  his  visits  to  the  Micawbers 
in  prison,  Dickens  hands  over  his  own  experience 
to  little  David,  for  this  is  what  he  says: 

"  The  only  changes  I  am  conscious  of  are,  first, 
that  I  had  grown  more  shabby;  and  secondly,  that 
I  was  now  relieved  of  much  of  the  weight  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Micawber's  cares,  for  some  relatives  or 
friends  had  engaged  to  help  them  at  their  present 
pass,  and  they  lived  more  comfortably  in  the  prison 


THE  REAL  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  39 

than  they  had  Hved  for  a  long  time  while  out  of 
it.  I  used  to  breakfast  with  them  now,  by  virtue 
of  some  arrangement  of  which  I  have  forgotten 
the  details.  I  forget,  too,  at  what  hour  the  gates 
were  opened  in  the  morning,  admitting  of  my  going 
in ;  but  I  know  that  I  was  often  up  at  six  o'clock, 
and  that  my  favorite  lounging  place,  in  the  interval, 
was  old  London  Bridge,  where  I  was  wont  to  sit 
in  one  of  the  stone  recesses,  watching  the  people 
going  by,  or  to  look  over  the  balustrades  at  the  sun 
shining  in  the  water,  and  lighting  up  the  golden 
flame  at  the  top  of  the  Monument." 

Word  for  word  this  is  the  true  history  of  little 
Charles  Dickens  at  that  time,  and  often  his  vigils 
on  the  Bridge  were  shared  by  the  little  maid-of- 
all-work,  who  was  faithful  to  the  family.  She,  too, 
had  lodgings  near  by,  and  when  they  met,  Charles 
would  amuse  himself  by  weaving  wonderful  tales  of 
the  wharves  and  the  Tower,  which  set  the  simple 
country  girl  gaping  with  amazement. 

In  practical  everyday  life  this  child  of  the 
Chatham  workhouse  had  little  sharp  worldly  ways 
which  were  most  amusing,  and  furnished  the  boy 
with  much  food  for  fancy.  She  was  made  use  of 
as  the  years  went  by,  first,  as  the  Orfling  in  the 
Micawber  household,  and  again  in  the  pathetic 
figure  of  the  Marchioness  in  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop," 
and  many  lighter  sketches  of  her  flit  through  the 
great  author's  books.  When  they  left  the  prison, 
all  its  memories  lingered  with  the  little  fellow,  for, 


40  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

feeble  as  had  been  its  glow,  the  Marshalsea  —  with 
its  swarm  of  odd  people,  its  dinginess,  its  thousand 
and  one  discomforts  —  had  for  a  brief  time  shone 
with  the  light  of  home  to  this  homeless  child. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    LITTLE    DICKENSES    AT    HOME. 


FTER  John  Dickens's  release  from 
prison,  we  hear  very  little  about  the 
money  troubles  of  the  family.  That 
they  were  poor,  goes  without  saying,  but 
the  cloud  of  debt  no  longer  hung  over  them,  and 
what  was  left  of  the  legacy,  together  with  the  pen- 
sion from  the  Pay  Office,  was  enough  to  keep  them 
above  want. 

No  doubt  the  experiences  through  which  they 
had  passed  had  left  their  trace  upon  the  characters 
of  all  \he  little  Dickenses.  Indeed,  how  could  it 
be  otherwise!  Every  one  of  us,  from  the  youngest 
to  the  oldest,  is  likely  to  be  touched  by  the  light 
or  shadow  of  our  surroundings.  But  of  one  thing 
we  may  be  certain  —  the  love  of  home  was  a  sturdy 
evergreen,  flourishing  in  the  heart  of  every  child. 
In  their  short  lives  they  had  known  many  homes, 
but  they  all  had  the  happy  faculty  of  considering 
any  walls  that  formed  even  a  temporary  shelter,  in 
the  light  of  a  home ;  and  in  after  years,  when  the 
great  novelist  had  a  thousand  themes  to  choose 
from,  he  always  sang  sweetest  when  he  sang  of 
home. 

41 


42  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Boys  and  girls  are  usually  made  of  the  right 
stuff  when  they  have  a  fondness  for  home,  and 
a  home  must  be  a  very  cheerless  place,  indeed,  that 
cannot  hold  its  flock  together.  The  little  we  know 
of  John  Dickens  showed  him  to  be  of  a  genial, 
sunny  disposition,  and  though  the  raising  of  a  large 
family  and  the  straitened  means  of  the  household 
kept  Mrs.  Dickens  very  much  in  the  background, 
she  must  have  been  a  woman  blessed  with  the  gift 
of  home-making. 

For  a  short  time  after  the  gates  of  the  Marshal- 
sea  had  opened  to  let  them  out,  the  whole  family 
lodged  with  Mrs.  Roylance  until  they  could  find 
some  suitable  place ;  from  there  they  went  to  Hamp- 
stead,  where  they  took  a  house,  but  this  must  have 
proved  too  expensive,  for  finally  —  in  1825  — they 
settled  in  a  cheap  part  of  London,  called  Somer's 
Town.  The  house  was  very  small  and  poor-look- 
ing, but  in  spite  of  many  drawbacks,  they  made 
a  home  of  it  for  four  years,  during  which  time 
many  changes  marked  the  lives  of  the  little 
Dickenses. 

To  begin  with,  Charles  was  sent  to  school.  What 
this  meant  to  the  boy,  no  one  knew;  but  unfor- 
tunately this  school  did  not  prove  all  that  his  family 
had  pictured.  It  was  called  Wellington  House 
Academy,  and  was  kept  by  one  William  Jones.  It 
was  one  of  those  places  where  study  was  forced 
by  means  of  the  ferule ;  where  the  master  was  a 
man   of   no   learning  whatever,    leaving   the   hard 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  43 

work  of  teaching  to  one  of  the  ushers,  who  was 
supposed  to  know  everything. 

In  a  quaint  little  reminiscence  called  "  Our 
School,"  Dickens  gives  us  a  vivid  description  of 
William  Jones,  the  Master. 

*'  The  only  branches  of  education,"  he  tells  us, 
"  with  which  he  had  the  least  acquaintance,  were 
ruling  and  corporally  punishing.  He  was  aUvays 
ruling  ciphering-books  with  a  bloated  mahogany 
ruler,  or  smiting  the  palms  of  offenders,  with  the 
same  diabolical  instrument.     .     . 

''  We  w^ere  old  enough  to  be  put  into  *  Virgil ' 
when  \\t  went  there,  and  to  get  Prizes  for  a  variety 
of  polishing  on  which  the  rust  has  long  accumu- 
lated. It  was  a  School  of  some  celebrity  in  its 
neighborhood  —  nobody  could  have  said  w^hy  — 
and  we  had  the  honor  to  attain  and  hold  the  emi- 
nent position  of  first  boy." 

As  Mr,  Creakle  of  Salem  School  in  "  David 
Copperfield,"  we  perhaps  get  even  a  better  idea 
of  Mr.  Jones's  harshness  and  absolute  cruelty  in 
dealing  with  the  boys.  Tweaking  their  ears  was 
a  favorite  pastime,  w^hich  poor  little  David  had  to 
endure  constantly. 

Even  in  school,  our  small  Charles  used  his  young 
observant  eyes  to  great  advantage;  the  boys,  who 
were  his  mates,  impressed  him  greatly,  not  so  much 
by  their  prowess,  as  by  their  peculiarities,  w^hich 
were  stowed  away  for  future  use  in  future  books, 
for  the  Dickens  schoolboy  is  a -study  in  itself,  and 


44  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

he  has  painted  so  many  and  such  real  ones  that  we 
feel  quite  sure  that  he  knew  them  all. 

"  The  principal  currency  of  Our  School  was 
slate-pencil.  It  had  some  inexplicable  value,  that 
was  never  ascertained,  never  reduced  to  a  standard. 
To  have  a  great  hoard  of  it  was  somehow  to  be 
rich.  We  used  to  bestow  it  in  charity,  and  confer 
it  as  a  precious  boon  upon  our  chosen  friends. 
When  the  holidays  were  coming,  contributions  were 
solicited  for  certain  boys  whose  relatives  were  in 
India.     .     .     ." 

These  boys  were  called  "  Holiday-stoppers " 
because,  having  no  homes  to  go  to  during  the  holi- 
days, they  stopped  in  school;  so  the  sympathetic 
boys  who  had  homes  bestowed  tokens  of  sympathy 
upon  the  homeless  ones  —  in  the  shape  of  slate- 
pencils. 

Not  to  have  a  home  to  frolic  in  at  Christmas 
time,  would  have  been  a  dread  calamity  to  anyone 
named  Dickens;  and  that  is  why  the  poor  little 
"  Holiday-stoppers  "  appealed  so  to  Charles  —  for 
no  matter  how  poor  they  were,  the  Christmas-Tree 
was  planted  wherever  the  little  Dickenses  chanced 
to  be.  Sometimes  the  gifts  were  mere  pretenses, 
but  there  was  the  glamour  of  the  Tree  always,  and 
half  a  dozen  vivid  imaginations  to  make  something 
out  of  nothing. 

By  this  time  another  little  boy  had  been  added 
to  the  family  group  —  the  youngest  and  last  —  and 
specially  notable  on  account  of  his  name,  Augustus, 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  45 

which  his  older  brother  laughingly  set  aside  —  and 
called  him  Moses  instead.  Still  in  a  joking  way  he 
often  pronounced  it  through  his  nose  —  Boses  — 
this  he  shortened  into  Boz,  which  nickname  clung 
to  the  youngster  until  several  years  later,  when  the 
budding  author  took  it  for  his  own  pen-name,  and 
the  fame  of  "  Boz  "  grew,  before  the  fame  of  Dick- 
ens was  thought  of. 

Now  with  six  children  —  the  oldest  not  quite 
sixteen  —  home  was  a  most  interesting  spot.  There 
was  always  something  going  on;  there  was  always 
chatter  or  laughter,  mischief  or  fun,  and  especially 
where  there  was  mischief  there  beyond  a  doubt  was 
the  master  hand  of  Charles  himself,  for  he  was 
bubbling  over  with  spirits,  in  those  early  days  of 
release  from  the  blacking-warehouse,  and  the  wild 
pranks  he  played  were  too  many  to  be  counted. 

All  holidays  were  festivals  to  these  children,  and 
when  there  were  no  holidays,  there  was  always  the 
toy  theatre.  This  was  a  never-ending  source  of 
amusement,  for  it  looked  quite  like  the  real  thing, 
even  to  the  paper  ladies  in  the  boxes.  The  actors 
connected  with  this  wonderful  triumph  of  paste 
and  glue  and  water-colors  were  the  most  talented 
of  puppets,  whose  legs  and  arms  worked  by  wire 
or  string,  and  they  certainly  did  perform  queer 
antics  at  the  most  exciting  moments.  The  plays 
themselves,  "  The  Miller  and  his  Men  "  and  "  Eliza- 
beth, the  Exile  of  Siberia  "  and  many  others  with 
the  same  high-sounding  titles,  were  always  written 


46  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

by  Charles  himself,  who,  even  at  the  advanced  age 
of  thirteen,  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  plot  or  a  situ- 
ation. 

Christmas  marked  the  height  of  happiness  in 
the  Dickens  household.  There  was  always  the 
Tree,  as  early  as  Charles  could  remember,  and  his 
childish  fancy  of  course  painted  that  home  Christ- 
mas-Tree in  glowing  colors.  Here  is  what  he  tells 
us  about  the  very  earliest  Christmas-Tree : 

*'  Straight,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  cramped 
in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  encircling  walls 
or  soon-reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree  arises ;  and, 
looking  up  into  the  dreamy  brightness  of  its  top  — 
for  I  observe  in  this  tree  the  singular  property  that 
it  appears  to  grow  downward  towards  the  earth  — 
I  look  into  my  youngest  Christmas  recollections." 

He  tells  us  of  the  singular  toys  of  his  day  — 
"  the  Tumbler,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  who 
wouldn't  lie  down,  but  whenever  he  was  put  up  on 
the  floor,  persisted  in  rolling  his  fat  body  about, 
until  he  rolled  himself  still,  and  brought  those 
lobster  eyes  of  his  to  bear  upon  me " —  which 
frightened  the  small  child  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

Then  there  was  a  certain  fat  old  Counselor  in 
a  box  with  a  spring,  who  popped  out  at  one  with 
a  ''  gobble-you-up  "  expression  that  haunted  one's 
dreams ;  and  a  Mask  most  terrible  to  look  at.  The 
imaginative  child  had  a  horror  of  this  Mask. 

"  Nothing  reconciled  me  to  it,"  he  wrote.  "  No 
drummers    from    whom    proceeded    a    melancholy 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  47 

chirping  on  the  turning  of  a  handle;  no  regiment  of 
soldiers  with  a  mute  band,  taken  out  of  a  box  and 
fitted,  one  by  one,  upon  a  stiff  and  lazy  little  set 
of  lazy  tongs;  no  old  woman  made  of  wires  and 
a  brown  paper  composition,  cutting  up  pie  for  two 
small  children,  could  give  me  a  permanent  comfort 
for  a  long  time.  Nor  was  it  any  satisfaction  to  be 
shown  the  Mask  and  see  that  it  was  made  of  paper, 
or  to  have  it  locked  up,  and  be  assured  that  no  one 
wore  it.  The  mere  recollection  of  that  fixed  face, 
the  mere  knowledge  of  its  existence  anywhere,  was 
sufficient  to  wake  me  in  the  night  —  all  perspira- 
tion and  horror  —  with  '  Oh,  I  know  it's  coming  — 
Oh,  the  Mask!'" 

He  liked  the  dear  old  donkey,  with  the  panniers 
and  a  coat  of  real  hair;  and  the  great  black  horse 
with  red  nostrils  and  unusual  red  spots  all  over  him, 
upon  whose  willing  back  he  could  easily  climb  and 
gallop  away  to  the  Land  of  Nowhere. 

The  Dickens  family  certainly  made  much  of 
Christmas  and  delighted  in  giving  presents.  We 
are  told  about  a  wonderful  doll's  house  "  of  which 
I  was  not  the  proprietor,  but  where  I  visited.  I 
don't  admire  the  Houses  of  Parliament  half  so 
much  as  that  stone- fronted  mansion,  with  real  glass 
windows,  and  door-steps  and  a  real  balcony  — 
greener  than  I  ever  see  now,  except  at  watering- 
places;  and  even  they  afford  but  a  poor  imitation." 

Boy-like,  he  was  particularly  attracted  by  the 
kitchen  of  this  elegant  mansion,  where  a  tin  man- 


43  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

cook  was  forever  frying  two  fish  on  the  '*  make- 
beHeve  "  stove.  And  he  remembered  vividly  a  cer- 
tain tea-party,  where  he  struck  the  fashionable  com- 
pany with  consternation,  by  swallowing  a  little  pewter 
tea-spoon  which  he  had  dissolved  in  the  hot  tea. 

Those  were  jolly  days  of  Christmas  trees,  before 
hardships  came  upon  the  little  Dickenses,  but  we 
must  not  think  that  the  holidays  lost  their  zest 
because  the  family  was  poorer.  Even  the  Marshal- 
sea  had  its  celebrations  —  and  where  there  was  a 
peep-hole  where  fun  could  escape,  the  little  Dick- 
enses caught  it. 

There  was  always  music  and  singing  and  acting 
to  enliven  them.  Fanny  was  fast  becoming  an 
accomplished  young  musician,  and  Charles  always 
had  a  decided  taste  for  singing.  While  at  Well- 
ington House  Academy  he  took  a  few  violin  lessons, 
though,  not  being  a  genius  in  that  direction,  he 
made  no  progress  and  soon  gave  it  up.  But  he 
became  quite  famous  in  the  literary  line;  his  first 
bit  of  editorial  work  was  called  "  Our  Newspaper," 
done  jointly  with  another  boy,  and  written  on 
scraps  of  copy-book  paper.  They  circulated  it  on 
payment  of  marbles  and  pieces  of  slate  pencil. 

"  This  paper,"  writes  the  other  boy,  '*  used  to 
contain  sundry  bits  of  boyish  fun  —  the  following 
I  recollect  — 

" '  Lost  Out  of  a  gentleman's  waistcoat  pocket 
an  acre  of  land;  the  finder  shall  be 
rewarded  on  restoring  the  same. 


<(  t 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  49 

Lost  By  a  boy  with  a  long  red  nose  and  grey 
eyes,  a  very  bad  temper.  Whoever 
has  found  the  same  may  keep  it,  as  the 
owner  is  better  without  it.' " 

There  was  another  boy  named  Beverley,  after- 
wards a  great  scene-painter,  who  practiced  his  bud- 
ding art  on  various  school  plays  written  by  Charles. 
"  There  can  be  no  doubt,"  we  are  told,  "  that  under 
the  joint  management  of  two  such  boys  as  Dickens 
and  Beverley,  these  theatrical  performances  must 
have  been  considerably  in  advance  of  the  ordinary 
juvenile  theatricals  to  be  then  found  in  schools." 
Naturally  these  plays  were  often  performed  at 
home,  and  the  genial,  fun-loving  boy  brought  his 
friends  also  into  the  home  circle  when  he  could. 

Unlike  most  geniuses,  Charles  Dickens,  with  the 
exception  of  certain  majestic  blank  verse  to  be 
found  in  his  boyish  efforts  at  drama,  spent  little 
time  in  verse  making.  Most  children  —  gifted  in 
his  way  —  find  some  early  expression  in  rhyme, 
which  is  often  real,  though  somewhat  crude  poetry, 
but  little  of  that  sort  of  thing  has  come  down  to  us 
from  the  pen  of  the  great  novelist.  The  secret 
sketches  he  made  of  the  people  with  whom  he  came 
in  daily  contact,  were  always  clever  bits  of  prose 
with  a  dash  of  vigorous  color  here  and  there.  A  bit 
of  doggerel  once  in  a  while  —  the  outcome  of  some 
boyish  joke  —  he  might  have  indulged  in,  but  they 
fluttered  out  of  sight  along  with  the  pieces  of  paper 
on  which  they  were  scribbled. 


50  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  small  lad,  small  in  spite  of  his  teens,  was 
studying  people  instead  of  poetry,  and  *'  learning 
all  the  time,"  his  biographer  tells  us,  though  the 
actual  knowledge  he  obtained  from  Wellington 
House  Academy  was  neither  very  extensive  nor 
very  wholesome.  He  may  not  have  known  it,  but 
the  year's  experience  at  the  blacking-warehouse  did 
more  to  set  him  on  his  literary  way  than  all  the 
limited  schooling  of  his  life.  Added  to  this,  as 
we  know,  was  his  love  of  home,  which  crept  into 
all  the  best  of  his  novels  and  his  stories. 

We  know,  too,  that  home  to  the  Dickens  chil- 
dren did  not  always  mean  a  place  of  beauty  and  of 
comfort,  it  did  not  always  mean  the  same  place, 
for  no  family  moved  quite  as  often  as  they  did, 
unless  it  was  the  homeless  poor  on  the  London 
streets.  Yet  they  were  never  so  happy  as  when  all 
together  under  the  same  roof,  and  we  have  seen 
how  miserable  poor  little  Charles  was,  when  the 
Marshalsea  gates  shut  him  out  from  his  family. 

Of  all  the  children,  he  and  Fanny  had  known 
better  times;  they  could  remember  the  Chatham 
days  of  comparative  peace  and  plenty.  Charles  in 
particular  could  amuse  the  younger  ones  with  anec- 
dotes of  the  quaint,  sleepy  old  place  and  its  people, 
and  being  a  good  mimic,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
regaled  the  little  Dickenses  with  performances 
w^hich  would  have  done  him  credit  before  a  larger 
audience. 

This   small  boy  had  his  own  original   ideas  of 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  51 

what  a  home  should  be;  a  home  with  a  bright  fire, 
a  cheery  hearth,  and  a  kettle  on  the  hob  —  a  good 
old-fashioned  home,  where  love  was  not  afraid  of 
poverty,  and  many  a  home  he  has  drawn  for  us  — 
where  we  love  to  linger. 

In  "  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  we  get  the  very 
brightest  picture.  The  wild  night  outside  —  for- 
gotten by  the  coziness  within  —  the  singing  of  the 
Kettle  —  the  chirping  of  the  Cricket  —  the  plump 
comeliness  of  little  Mrs.  Dot  —  all  waiting  for  the 
big  Carrier,  with  frosted  eyebrows  and  icicles  hang- 
ing from  his  clothes,  to  burst  in  and  add  the  finish- 
ing touch.  The  cricket  chirping  on  the  family 
hearth  was  considered  a  good  omen.  Dot  thought 
so,  and  said  as  much  to  her  big  husband: 

"  '  This  has  been  a  happy  home,  John ;  and  I  love 
the  Cricket   for  its  sake ! ' 

"  *  Why  so  do  I  then  ' —  said  the  Carrier,  *  so  do 
I,  Dot!' 

*'  '  I  love  it  for  the  many  times  I've  heard  it  and 
the  many  thoughts  its  harmless  music  has  given  me. 
Sometimes  in  the  twilight,  when  I  have  felt  a  little 
solitary  and  down-hearted,  before  baby  was  here 
to    keep    me   company   and   make    the   house    gay 

.  .  its  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp,  upon  the  hearth 
has  seemed  to  tell  me  of  another  little  voice,  so 
sweet,  so  very  dear  to  me,  before  whose  coming 
sound  my  trouble  vanished  like  a  dream.  And 
when  I  used  to  fear  —  I  did  fear  once,  John,  I  was 
very  young  you  know  —  that  ours  might  prove  an 


52  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ill-assorted  marriage  —  I  being  such  a  child,  and 
you  more  like  my  guardian  than  my  husband; 
.  .  .  its  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp,  has  cheered  me  up 
again,  and  filled  me  with  new  trust  and  confidence. 
I  was  thinking  of  these  things  to-night,  dear,  when 
I  was  expecting  you,  and  I  love  the  Cricket  for 
their  sake.'  " 

We  cannot  help  wondering  if  the  little  Dickenses 
had  a  Cricket  on  their  hearth.  They  had  a  Cricket 
without  a  doubt,  for  their  older  brother's  sunny 
humor  pervaded  the  household.  His  was  a  nature 
singularly  young  always,  and  forgiving.  As  the 
one  dark  year  of  his  life  sank  farther  and  farther 
out  of  sight,  his  real  boyishness  rose  to  the  top. 
He  became  ringleader  in  many  harmless  pranks  — ' 
and  was  the  inventor  of  a  wonderful  language 
known  only  to  himself  and  his  intimates;  and  the 
toy  theater  served  as  a  stage  setting  for  the  many 
attempted  dramas  and  melodramas  which  were  born 
in  his  active  brain  just  then. 

There  is  little  to  record  of  Dickens  at  this  time, 
beyond  the  fanciful  biography  of  David  Copper- 
Held.  His  was  a  restless,  inquiring  mind;  the 
quick,  active  movements  —  full  of  unstudied  grace 
—  the  bright  eyes  and  brighter  speeches,  made  a 
great  impression  upon  all  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact,  and  sometimes  the  wild  spirit  of  the  boy 
burst  forth,  and  the  little  Dickenses  looked  on  and 
wondered. 

Two  years  of  schooling  were  quite  enough   for 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  53 

our  untamed  Charles.  He  went  long  enough  to 
see  that  a  mere  room  with  benches  and  desks,  and 
a  master  who  used  his  mahogany  ruler  with  such 
deadly  effect,  was  not  a  place  where  he  was  likely 
to  learn  anything  more  than  he  knew  already. 

There  is  a  kindly  silence  on  the  subject,  but  it 
is  very  much  to  be  feared,  from  hints  dropped  in 
the  clever  articles  of  later  years,  that  Master 
Charles's  spirit  of  mischief  often  got  him  into  hot 
water  at  the  Wellington  House  Academy.  Once 
—  if  we  can  believe  the  thinly-veiled  disguise  in 
"  Our  School  " —  he  wrote  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse 
ridiculing  one  of  the  parlor  boarders. 

"  This  production,"  he  tells  us,  "  was  received 
with  great  favor  and  was  twice  performed  with 
closed  doors  in  the  dining-room.  But  it  got  wind 
and  was  seized  as  libelous,  and  brought  the  unlucky 
poet  into  severe  affliction,"  which  meant  in  other 
words,  a  good  sound  thrashing. 

"  Our  School,"  he  further  adds,  "  was  remark- 
able for  w^hite  mice.  Red-polls,  linnets,  and  even 
canaries  were  kept  in  desks,  drawers,  hat-boxes  and 
other  strange  refuges  for  birds;  but  white  mice 
were  the  favorite  stock.  The  boys  trained  the  mice, 
much  better  than  the  masters  trained  the  boys.  We 
recall  one  white  mouse,  who  lived  in  the  cover 
of  a  Latin  dictionary,  who  ran  up  ladders,  drew 
Roman  chariots,  shouldered  muskets,  turned 
wheels,  and  even  made  a  very  creditable  appear- 
ance on  the  stage,  as  the  Dog  of  Montargis.  He 
5 


54  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

might  have  achieved  greater  things,  but  for  having 
the  misfortune  to  mistake  his  way  in  a  triumphal 
procession  to  the  Capitol,  when  he  fell  into  a  deep 
inkstand  and  was  dyed  black  and  drowned." 

This  special  mouse  belonged  to  a  company  of 
boys  who  showed  much  ingenuity  and  clever  en- 
gineering in  planning  their  houses,  and  many  of 
them  rose  afterwards  to  prominent  places  as  en- 
gineers in  larger  fields.  Mr.  Jones  little  thought  — 
as  he  sat  all  the  day  ruling  ciphering-books  and 
feruling  small  boys  —  that  a  pair  of  bright  eyes 
was  watching  every  motion  of  the  large,  cruel 
hands,  and  the  poor  head  usher,  "  who  knew  every- 
thing," little  thought  that  some  day  he  would  get 
into  a  famous  book  and  become  in  some  indirect 
way  the  instrument  for  mending  the  fortunes  of 
many  a  poor  underpaid  usher  like  himself. 

It  was  in  the  pathetic  character  of  Mr.  Mell,  the 
poor  usher  at  Salem  School  in  "  David  Copper- 
field,"  that  we  first  see  him,  but  he  flits  through 
many  books  in  many  different  guises  —  always  poor 
and  proud,  ill-fed,  ill-clad,  and  ill-paid. 

Yes,  all  through  this,  the  last  real  schooling  of 
his  life,  little  Charles  was  studying  men  instead 
of  mathematics.  He  never  made  much  of  a  mark 
at  school,  though  he  was  a  great  favorite  with  the 
boys,  whose  thirst  for  hearing  stories  he  could 
thoroughly  satisfy. 

Nothing  the  small  boy  loved  so  well  as  to  hold 
spell-bound  an  audience  of  active,  restless  school- 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  55 

boys,  and  all  of  the  old  half-forgotten  tales  which 
he  had  absorbed  in  happy  days  at  Chatham,  were 
retold  in  his  own  peculiar  way  with  many  additions 
most  likely,  which  were  none  the  worse  for  the 
story.  The  "  Arabian  Nights  "  were  also  revived 
among  the  children  at  home,  and  many  a  thrill 
went  through  the  ranks  of  the  little  Dickenses,  in 
listening  to  these  tales  of  wonder,  for  the  boy  had 
all  the  gifts  of  the  good  story-teller,  to  which  was 
added  a  great  deal  of  dramatic  fire,  which  put  new 
life  into  every  tale  he  told. 

He  had  grown  considerably  during  those  two 
years  of  schooling,  though  he  was  still  below  the 
average  height  of  a  boy  of  fourteen;  but  he  had 
outgrown  all  his  childish  ailments,  and  had  devel- 
oped into  an  active,  sturdy  fellow,  fond  of  out- 
of-door  sports  and  athletics,  but  fondest  of  all  of 
poking  about  in  the  dim  and  grimy  by-ways  of 
London,  which  he  had  grown  to  know  only  too 
well,  in  the  old  dark  days. 

He  loved  the  River  and  the  shipping  —  he  loved 
the  Bridge  over  which  he  had  leaned  so  many  times 

—  he  loved  the  pungent  odor  of  the  water  —  but 
most  of  all  he  loved  the  people  who  haunted  such 
places  —  the  poor  of  London;  the  people,  shabby, 
ill-clothed,  uncared-for,  who  hurried  by  him  in  the 
streets  —  the  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads 

—  the  slouching  men  with  their  caps  drawn  over 
their  eyes  —  the  very  children,  looking  like  shriveled 
old  men  and  women. 


56  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Had  anyone  questioned  him,  he  would  not  have 
been  able  to  explain  —  boy  as  he  was  —  the  fasci- 
nation that  the  streets  of  London  held  for  him. 
In  his  many  walks  about  the  city  he  was  never 
conscious  of  any  purpose.  Yet  David  Copper  field, 
in  describing  his  walks,  says :  "  I  looked  at  nothing 
that  I  know  of,  but  I  saw  everything,"  and  this 
was  precisely  the  case  with  Charles  Dickens,  as  it 
is  with  all  quick  and  observant  youngsters. 

But  the  interest  of  this  boy  was  sharpened  by 
many  a  prick  of  memory;  by  the  memory  of  the 
time  when  a  miserable,  overworked  little  soul  had 
trudged  these  streets  as  in  a  dream,  fighting  a  bitter 
battle,  and  every  time  the  small  and  shabby  figure 
of  a  boy  appeared,  memory  came  also  and  stalked 
beside  it. 

He  grew  to  know  the  "  lingo  "  of  the  streets  as 
well  as  any  street-boy,  and  he  mimicked  the  cockney 
accent  to  perfection,  much  to  the  amusement  of  all 
who  heard  him.  But  they  were  only  amused ;  they 
never  knew  that,  beneath  all  the  boyish  flippancy, 
a  something  very  tender,  very  human,  was  stirring 
in  its  sleep  —  a  great  absorbing  love  of  the  poor  — 
sympathy  with  their  joys  and  sorrows  —  a  sincere 
wish  to  help  them  —  to  make  the  world  hear  their 
cry  —  a  wish  to  tell  people  of  the  life  that  went 
on  from  day  to  day,  year  to  year,  on  the  streets 
or  in  their  meager  homes,  the  tragedy  and  the 
comedy  of  it  all. 

And  this,  the  boy  with  the  bright,  quick-seeing 


THE  LITTLE  DICKENSES  AT  HOME.  57 

eyes,  was  studying  much  harder  than  he  did  Latin 
and  History  at  the  Wellington  House  Academy,  and 
this  was  in  his  mind  when  he  was  cracking  jokes 
among  his  mates,  or  telling  stories  to  the  little 
Dickenses,  around  their  own  home  fire.  Fantastic, 
shuddering  tales  they  often  were,  with  pictures 
drawn  from  the  very  heart  of  the  blaze. 

He  did  not  know  what  the  future  held  for  him 
when  he  left  school,  or,  indeed,  that  it  held  any- 
thing beyond  the  position  "  as  office  boy  in  an  attor- 
ney's firm,"  as  the  old  song  has  it.  For  work  was 
necessary  in  the  Dickens  family,  and  Charles  had 
had  a  long  holiday.  The  other  boys,  too,  needed 
their  "  bit  of  schooling,"  so  he  must  give  way. 

College  was  not  even  hinted  at  —  even  the  boy 
himself  had  neither  such  hope  nor  ambition.  Be- 
sides, the  old  home  tie  still  held  him;  he  did  not 
mind  laboring  by  day,  with  the  prospect  of  a  family 
reunion  when  work  was  over.  So,  still  a  little  under 
size,  though  able-bodied  and  trustworthy,  Charles 
Dickens  set  forth  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  office 
of  a  Mr.  Molloy,  a  solicitor,  little  dreaming,  as  he 
tapped  modestly  at  the  door,  that  fame  stepped 
quietly  with  him  over  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE     FIRST    START    IN     LIFE. 


HARLES  DICKENS  was  somewhere 
between  fourteen  and  fifteen  years  old 
when  he  began  at  the  bottom  of  the  lad- 
^  der  as  office  boy  to  Mr.  Molloy,  the 
sohcitor,  and  there  was  not  much  of  incident  in 
his  short  career  there.  The  office  boys  were  just 
important  enough  in  their  own  estimation  to  have 
the  utmost  contempt  for  the  schoolboy  ranks  which 
supplied  most  of  the  business  recruits.  These  boys 
put  on  a  mannish  swagger  and  "  clubbed  "  together 
for  their  suppers,  like  the  clerks  above  them,  and 
imagined  that  they  "saw  life" — poor  little  half- 
fledged  chaps !  Funny  little  fellows,  too,  they  must 
have  been  (something  like  the  numerous  "  buttons  " 
that  cross  our  path  to-day),  with  their  quick 
tongues,  their  sharp  eyes,  and  a  certain  surprising 
agility,  which  made  them  invaluable  for  running 
errands  in  those  telephoneless  days. 

The  office  boy  of  Dickens's  day  was  certainly 
busy  from  morning  till  night. 

He  washed  the  windows  and  he  swept  the  floor, 
And  he  polished  up  the  handle  of  the  big  front  door. 

S8 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  59 

In  short,  he  saw  that  the  musty,  fusty  old  offices 
where  most  lawyers  herded  were  at  least  brushed 
up  to  something  like  the  semblance  of  order. 

Dickens  describes  these  offices  so  graphically  in 
his  various  books  that  we  can  see  the  very  cobwebs 
hanging  from  the  ceilings.  In  "  Pickwick,"  his 
earliest  book,  he  describes  a  whole  nest  of  them: 

*'  Scattered  about  in  various  holes  and  corners 
of  the  Temple,  are  certain  dark  and  dirty  cham- 
bers, in  and  out  of  which,  all  the  morning  in  Vaca- 
tion, and  half  the  evening  in  Term-time,  there  may 
be  seen,  constantly  hurrying,  with  bundles  of  papers 
under  their  arms,  and  protruding  from  their  pock- 
ets, an  almost  uninterrupted  succession  of  Lawyers' 
Clerks.     .     .     . 

"  These  sequestered  nooks  are  the  public  offices 
of  the  legal  profession.  .  .  .  They  are,  for 
the  most  part,  low-roofed,  moldy  rooms,  where 
innumerable  rolls  of  parchment,  which  have  been 
perspiring  in  secret  for  the  last  century,  send  forth 
an  agreeable  odor,  which  is  mingled  by  day  with 
the  scent  of  the  dry-rot,  and  by  night  with  the 
various  exhalations  which  arise  from  damp  cloaks, 
festering  umbrellas,  and  the  coarsest  tallow  can- 
dles." 

Even  in  smoky,  foggy  London,  the  character  of 
the  lawyer's  office  has  changed  a  great  deal,  and  the 
office  boy's  duties  are  not  so  heavy  as  in  1827. 
But  when  Charles  Dickens  was  a  boy  he  had  not 
only  to  scrub  the  floor,  but  to  carry  his  own  water 


6o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

from  the  pump,  which  was  no  easy  task  if  it  chanced 
to  be  winter  and  there  was  more  than  one  bucketful 
needed  for  the  job.  But  everything  this  boy  did, 
he  did  well,  and  there  is  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Mol- 
loy's  floors  were  pretty  thoroughly  scrubbed  during 
the  short  time  that  he  was  there,  for  in  May,  1827, 
he  became  a  regular  clerk  in  the  office  of  Messrs. 
Ellis  and  Blackmore,  attorneys,  of  Gray's  Inn, 
where  he  stayed  for  a  year  and  a  half. 

His  father  and  mother  fondly  believed  that  his 
position  in  life  was  now  assured.  There  were 
many  grades  of  clerks  in  the  practice  of  the  law, 
and  what  better  apprenticeship  could  the  boy  have 
than  in  this  daily  association  with  lawyers  and  their 
methods !  What  better,  indeed,  could  young  Dick- 
ens have  had,  though  not  along  the  lines  his  parents 
had  hoped  for!  He  was  studying,  to  be  sure,  but 
what  he  learned  was  certainly  not  to  be  found  in 
the  dusty  law-books! 

Had  our  Charles  been  a  different  sort  of  a  boy, 
a  lawyer's  office  would  have  been  the  very  worst 
place  he  could  have  chosen  for  a  start  in  life.  Here 
he  came  in  contact  with  every  side  of  the  law. 
He  knew  the  clever  lawyer,  the  tricky  lawyer,  the 
rising  lawyer ;  he  knew  the  lawyer  with  brains,  and 
the  lawyer  without,  and  he  has  had  something  to 
say  about  them  in  every  book  he  has  written  — 
from  the  first  to  the  last. 

It  was  rather  unusual  to  be  a  lawyer's  clerk  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  but  this  was  an  unusual  boy,  he 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  6l 

could  be  trusted  with  very  special  and  particular 
messages,  and  he  knew  his  London,  from  one  end 
of  the  vast  city  to  the  other,  as  probably  few  people 
knew  it,  and  this  made  him  useful  in  many  round- 
about ways  known  only  to  lawyers  and  their  clients. 

This  bright-eyed  youngster,  seemingly  absorbed 
in  the  duties  of  a  junior  clerk,  was  in  reality  study- 
ing the  characters  that  passed  as  it  were  under  his 
very  nose;  he  was  studying  the  law  on  every  side 
and  in  every  light;  boy  as  he  was,  he  was  quick  to 
discover  the  joke  of  it  —  the  muddle  of  it  all  —  and 
all  the  serious  things  connected  with  it. 

At  Ellis  and  Blackmore's  the  clerks  kept  an  ac- 
count book,  where  the  office  expenses  were  regu- 
larly entered.  His  own  salary  was  ten  shillings 
a  week  at  first,  which  was  increased  to  fifteen  be- 
fore he  left.  The  clerks  took  turns  in  entering 
the  accounts,  and  Dickens's  handwriting  came 
from  January  to  March,  1828,  while  his  autograph 
was  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  here  and  there  through 
the  book  occurred  such  names  as  Weller,  Mrs. 
Bardell,  Corney,  Rudge,  and  Newman  Knott,  all 
of  whom,  with  some  slight  changes,  are  very  fa- 
miliar characters  in  Dickens's  own  books  —  names 
wdiich,  as  wx  see,  he  calmly  took,  as  he  probably 
took  many  little  peculiarities  along  with  them. 

Always  of  a  social  nature,  Dickens  readily  made 
friends  among  the  clerks.  His  first  friend, 
Thomas  Mitton,  proved  to  be  such  a  congenial 
one  that   the   intercourse   was   kept  up    for  many 


62  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

years,  and  at  Ellis  and  Blackmore's  he  found  a 
most  entertaining  companion  in  a  young  man 
named  Potter,  a  fellow  clerk,  though  somewhat 
beyond  him  in  age  and  official  position.  They 
often  went  to  the  theaters  as  both  were  fond  of 
that  sort  of  amusement,  and  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion they  actually  appeared  themselves,  in  small 
parts.  Of  course  Dickens  used  him  as  a  character 
in  two  of  his  "  Sketches  by  Boz,"  and  there  was 
something  about  him  which  faintly  suggested  the 
rollicking,  good-natured  rascal,  Alfred  Jingle  in 
"  Pickwick." 

In  one  of  the  ''  Sketches "  he  describes  Mr. 
Thomas  Potter,  not  even  attempting  to  disguise 
his  name : 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  then,  was  a  clerk  in  the 
city,  and  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  [a  caricature  of 
himself  perhaps]  was  a  ditto  in  the  same;  their 
incomes  were  limited,  but  their  friendship  was 
unbounded.  They  lived  in  the  same  street,  walked 
into  town  every  morning  at  the  same  hour,  dined 
at  the  same  slap-bang  every  day,  and  reveled  in 
each  other's  company  every  night.  They  were 
knit  together  by  the  closest  ties  of  intimacy  and 
friendship,  or,  as  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  touchingly 
observed,  they  were  '  thick  and  thin  pals,  and  noth- 
ing but  it.'  There  was  a  spice  of  romance  in  Mr. 
Smithers'  disposition,  a  ray  of  poetry,  a  gleam  of 
misery,  a  sort  of  consciousness  of  —  he  didn't  ex- 
actly know  what,   coming  across  him  —  he  didn't 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  63 

precisely  know  why  —  which  stood  out  in  fine  rehef 
against  the  off-hand,  daring  manner  which  dis- 
tinguished Mr.  Potter  in  an  eminent  degree." 

In  another  "  Sketch  '^  he  is  described  as  Jones, 
the  barrister's  clerk  — "  capital  company  —  full  of 
anecdote !  " 

Indeed,  in  those  days,  young  Charles  had  all 
the  admiration  for  Potter  that  a  small  boy  usually 
has  for  a  big  one,  and  yet  —  though  in  a  mild  way 
he  followed  the  great  creature  —  he  also  captured 
him,  and  not  only  popped  him  into  his  "  Sketches," 
but  turned  and  twisted  and  distorted  him  into  a 
dozen  different  lawyers'  clerks  in  different  lawyers' 
offices. 

Ah !  those  law  offices !  how  he  knew  them  — 
from  the  Doctors  Commons  to  the  office  of  the 
smallest  solicitor  among  the  Inns,  as  most  of  the 
lawyers'  offices  were  called.  It  was  not  so  very 
many  years  after  he  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  being 
a  lawyer  that  he  began  his  "  Sketches,"  and  one  of 
these,  called  "  Doctors  Commons,"  gives  a  very 
good  idea  of  what  that  branch  of  the  law  really 
w^as,  with  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  fat  Judge  and  the 
be-wigged  or  be-robed  advocates  or  proctors.  The 
English  law  in  those  days  was  very  pompous,  very 
consequential,  and  in  many  cases  very  stupid,  and 
Charles  Dickens  found  this  out  in  the  nick  of  time, 
to  save  himself  from  becoming  one  of  the  flock. 

He  never  forgot  the  many  little  scenes  which 
passed  before  him  in  Ellis  and  Blackmore's  offices. 


64  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  Mr.  Blackmore  himself  said:  "I  am  much 
mistaken  if  some  of  his  characters  had  not  their 
originals  in  persons  I  well  remember,"  and  if  the 
list  of  names  in  the  office  account-book  can  be  re- 
lied upon  those  must  have  been  the  very  people. 

*'  During  these  eighteen  months,"  writes  Mr. 
Langton,  one  of  his  numerous  biographers, 
"  Charles  Dickens  must  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
the  ordinary  routine  of  a  lawyer's  office,  and  ac- 
cordingly we  have,  throughout  his  works,  lawyers 
of  almost  every  possible  shade  and  variety,  from 
Mr.  Sampson  Brass  to  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  and  from 
Solomon  Pell  to  Mr.  Grewgious. 

*'  Of  firms  of  solicitors  besides  those  introduced 
into  the  tales,  such  as  Snitchey  and  Craggs,  Dod- 
son  and  Fogg,  Kenge  and  Carboys,  and  others,  are 
some  highly  characteristic  names  of  firms  incident- 
ally mentioned  in  *  Pickwick,'  where  at  Sergeants' 
Inn  they  were  called  out  ...  in  tenor  and 
bass  voices  — '  Sniggle  and  Blink,  Parkin  and  Snob, 
Stumpy  and  Deacon.'  " 

Dickens  had  a  happy  knack  of  fitting  his  names 
to  his  characters,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  one 
is  apt  to  recall  the  characters  from  his  books  with 
such  readiness.  We  know,  for  instance,  what  kind 
of  lawyers  composed  the  firm  of  Dodson  and  Fogg, 
or  Sniggle  and  Blink,  or  Parkin  and  Snob, 
Sampson  Brass  we  know  was  a  close-fisted,  money- 
loving  swindler,  and  Dick  Szviveller,  much  as  we 
admire  his  many  good  traits,   suggests  at  once  a 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  65 

great  fondness  for  beer,  and  a  general  seediness 
that  often  goes  side  by  side  with  the  underpaid 
lawyer's  clerk.  One  of  the  best  named  characters 
is  that  of  the  office-boy  of  Mr.  Mortimer  Light- 
wood  in  ''  Our  Mutual  Friend."  Here  is  an  ex- 
cellent picture  of  Young  Blight: 

"  Whosoever  had  gone  out  of  Fleet  Street  into 
the  Temple  at  the  date  of  this  history,  and  had 
wandered  disconsolate  about  the  Temple  until  he 
had  stumbled  on  a  dismal  churchyard,  and  had 
looked  up  at  the  dismal  windows  commanding  that 
churchyard,  until  at  the  most  dismal  window  of 
all  he  saw  a  most  dismal  boy,  would  in  him  have 
beheld  at  one  grand  comprehensive  swoop  of  the 
eye,  the  managing  clerk,  common-law  clerk,  con- 
veyancing clerk,  chancery  clerk,  every  refinement 
and  department  of  clerk  of  Mr.  Mortimer  Light- 
wood,  erstwhile  called  in  the  newspapers,  eminent 
solicitor." 

By  this,  we  know,  without  further  explanation, 
that  Mr.  Mortimer  Lightwood  did  a  very  small 
law  business,  and  that  Young  Blight  had  a  most 
appropriate  name. 

But  names  as  yet  meant  nothing  to  Charles 
Dickens,  beyond  some  happy  thought  which  they 
might  have  suggested.  He  was  growing  up,  and 
the  by-ways  of  the  law  did  not  suit  him  at  all.  He 
began  to  have  an  ardent  longing  to  get  into  print 
somehow,  but  there  were  very  few  means  of  get- 
ing  there  —  that  was  the  trouble. 


^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

About  this  time  his  father  became  a  reporter 
for  the  Morning  Herald,  a  most  interesting  oc- 
cupation, for  this  special  branch  of  reporting  was 
devoted  to  parhamentary  work,  and  the  boy  con- 
ceived a  sudden  desire  to  follow  in  his  father's 
footsteps.  But  to  become  a  reporter  was  no  easy 
matter,  especially  as  this  poor  little  lawyer's  clerk 
had  his  hands  full  all  day,  and  a  reporter's  work 
consisted  first  and  foremost  of  a  complete  and 
thorough  knowledge  of  shorthand. 

Once  having  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wanted 
to  do  a  thing,  our  friend  Charles  was  pretty  apt  to 
do  it.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  the  law 
to  its  spiders  and  its  cobwebs,  to  come  out  from 
the  dark  corners  and  see  the  light  of  day  among 
people  —  always  among  people  —  but  he  could  not 
sacrifice  his  fifteen  shillings  a  week  for  anything 
less  certain.  This  young  fellow,  though  not  quite 
seventeen,  knew  only  too  well  the  value  of  even 
a  little  money,  and  anything  he  wished  to  do  in 
the  way  of  fitting  himself  for  any  other  field  had 
to  be  done  either  late  at  night  while  others  slept, 
or  in  the  early  dawn  before  their  own  noisy  little 
household  was  astir. 

He  said  nothing  to  anyone,  he  bought  a  book 
on  shorthand,  and  set  to  work  in  right  good  ear- 
nest. He  had  a  quick  mind  and  a  retentive  memory, 
and  never  spared  himself  in  any  task  which  he 
thought  worth  doing.  He  gives  a  humorous  ac- 
count of  his  struggles  in  "  David  Copperfield,"  for 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  6/ 

that  young  gentleman  went  through  exactly  the 
same  experience. 

"  '  I'll  buy  a  book  (said  David)  with  a  good 
scheme  of  this  art  in  it;  I'll  work  at  it  at  the 
Commons  where  I  haven't  half  enough  to  do; 
I'll  take  down  the  speeches  in  our  court  for  prac- 
tice.' " 

This  was  bravely  spoken  by  our  young  hero, 
David,  just  then  in  the  first  throes  of  his  passion 
for  Dora,  the  little  fairy  daughter  of  his  employer, 
Mr.  Spenlow.  David  consulted  his  friend,  Tommy 
Tr addles,  one  of  his  old  school-mates  from  the 
far-away  Salem  School,  and  the  result  was  that 
Traddles  made  inquiries  for  his  friend,  as  to  the 
requirements  of  a  parliamentary  reporter. 

"  Traddles  now  informed  me  .  .  .  that 
the  mere  mechanical  acquisition  necessary  .  .  . 
for  thorough  excellence  in  it,  that  is  to  say,  a  per- 
fect and  entire  command  of  the  myster}^  of  short- 
hand writing  and  reading,  was  about  equal  in  diffi- 
culty to  the  mastery  of  six  languages,  and  that  it 
might  perhaps  be  attained  by  dint  of  perseverance 
in  the  course  of  a  few  years.  Traddles  reasonably 
supposed  that  this  would  settle  the  business,  but 
I,  only  feeling  that  here  indeed  were  a  few  tall 
trees  to  be  hewn  down,  immediately  resolved  to 
work  my  way  on  to  Dora,  through  this  thicket, 
ax  in  hand. 

"  '  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  Trad- 
dles,' said  I,  'I'll  begin  to-morrow!'" 


68  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

David  was  some  years  older  than  Charles 
Dickens  when  he  struck  for  liberty,  but  he  was 
not  one  whit  more  determined. 

Stenography  was  then,  as  it  is  to-day,  a  most 
complicated  study,  but  the  modern  books  on  the 
subject  have  been  so  simplified  that,  with  careful 
training,  the  average  schoolgirl  or  boy  can  master 
the  problem  in  a  very  short  time.  But  in  Dickens's 
day,  only  the  favored  few,  chiefly  newspaper  re- 
porters and  court  reporters,  were  ever  skillful 
enough  to  be  expert  stenographers,  and  the  few 
books  which  the  ambitious  little  law  clerk  was  able 
to  consult  nearly  drove  him  mad.  Like  David 
Copperfield,  he  "  plunged  into  a  sea  of  perplexity." 

"  The  changes  rung  upon  dots,"  he  tells  us, 
"  which  in  such  a  position  meant  such  a  thing, 
and  in  such  another  position,  something  else  en- 
tirely different;  the  wonderful  vagaries  that  were 
played  by  circles;  the  unaccountable  consequences 
that  resulted  from  marks  like  flies'  legs;  the  tre- 
mendous effects  of  a  curve  in  a  wrong  place;  not 
only  troubled  my  waking  hours,  but  reappeared  be- 
fore me  in  my  sleep.  When  I  had  groped  my  way, 
blindly,  through  these  difficulties,  and  had  mastered 
the  alphabet  which  was  an  Egyptian  Temple  in  it- 
self, there  then  appeared  a  procession  of  new  hor- 
rors, called  arbitrary  characters;  the  most  despotic 
characters  I  have  ever  known;  who  insisted  for 
instance  that  a  thing  like  the  beginning  of  a  cob- 
web  meant   expectation,    and   that   a   pen-and-ink 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  69 

sky-rocket  stood  for  disadvantageous.  When  I 
had  fixed  these  wretches  in  my  mind,  I  found  that 
they  had  driven  everything  else  out  of  it;  then 
beginning  again,  I  forgot  them ;  while  I  was  picking 
them  up,  I  dropped  the  other  fragments  of  the 
system;  in  short  it  was  almost  heartbreaking 
.  .  ."  but  David  was  undaunted.  "  Every 
scratch  in  the  scheme  was  a  gnarled  oak  in  the 
forest  of  difficulty,  and  I  went  on  cutting  them 
down  one  after  another,  with  such  vigor,  that  in 
three  or  four  months  I  was  in  a  condition  to  make 
an  experiment  on  one  of  our  crack  speakers  in 
the  Commons.  Shall  I  ever  forget  how  the  crack 
speaker  walked  off  from  me  before  I  began,  and 
left  my  imbecile  pencil  staggering  about  the  paper 
as  if  it  were  in  a  fit!  " 

If  this  was  David's  experience  at  about  twenty- 
two  or  three,  that  of  poor  httle  Charles  Dickens, 
aged  seventeen,  must  have  been  even  more  trying. 
]\Iany  and  many  a  failure  he  made,  and  many  and 
laughable  were  his  mistakes.  Like  David,  he 
pressed  his  family  into  service,  and  flung  himself 
—  note-book  and  pencil  in  hand  —  on  the  mercy 
of  anyone  who  would  deliver  a  speech  for  his 
especial  benefit,  and  the  faster  the  words  flew,  the 
faster  traveled  the  pencil  of  this  ambitious  young 
reporter.  Sometimes,  he  tells  us,  his  pencil  jumped 
around  in  such  a  ridiculous  manner,  chasing  the 
obliging  orator,  that  Charles  himself  was  puzzled 
when  it  came  to  reading  his  own  shorthand,  but 


70  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

that  was  merely  nervousness,  which  he  soon  over- 
came. 

He  haunted  the  courts,  he  attended  pubHc  speak- 
ing, he  never  missed  the  smallest  opportunity  for 
improving  his  shorthand,  and  all  through  his  own 
perseverance  and  industry,  for  his  sole  instruction 
came  from  the  text-books  which  he  was  able  to 
buy,  and  from  those  which  he  consulted  later  in 
the  British  Museum,  books  of  information  on 
general  subjects.  He  was  quick-witted  enough  to 
understand  what  a  very  limited  education  he  had, 
and  to  know  that  to  push  himself  along  in  the 
world  he  needed  a  great  deal  more  general  infor- 
mation. Whatever  spare  hours  he  had  were,  there- 
fore, spent  in  the  Museum,  which  he  often  declared 
were  some  of  the  most  delightful  and  profitable 
hours  of  his  life. 

Added  to  all  this  strenuous  work,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  was  going  through  that  peculiar 
stage  of  development  in  the  life  of  every  normal 
boy  and  girl :  he  was  falling  in  love  —  with  all  the 
earnestness  of  a  very  ardent  and  impressionable 
nature. 

Of  course  with  Dickens,  who,  from  his  earliest 
toddling  days,  had  always  some  special  and  adored 
sweetheart,  this  development  was  not  so  notice- 
able to  those  with  whom  he  came  in  daily  contact. 
But  just  as  David  found  his  Dora,  so  Charles 
Dickens  had  his  divinity,  and,  strange  to  say,  the 
unknown  fair  one  —  unknown,  that  is,  at  least  to 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  71 

history  —  was  in  many  respects  the  original  of  the 
little  fairy  who  captivated  David,  while  Jip,  the 
dog,  was  the  faithful  portrait  of  a  certain  stuffed 
Jip  which  he  saw  at  the  home  of  his  former  love 
many  years  later,  when  the  faded  romance  made 
them  both  smile. 

But  in  those  early  days  the  romance  was  aflame 
with  vigorous  and  healthy  color.  Whatever  was 
best  and  noblest  and  truest  in  this  boy  of  seven- 
teen, came  to  the  front  and  urged  him  to  his  high- 
est effort.  As  David  worked  for  his  Dora,  so  he 
worked  for  his  love.  It  may  have  been  a  mistaken 
passion  —  it  certainly  was  not  a  lasting  one  — • 
what  boy  of  seventeen  quite  knows  his  own  mind 
and  heart!  But  while  it  lasted  it  was  sincere,  and 
it  spurred  him  as  the  knights  of  old  were  spurred 
to  their  very  best  endeavors.  Had  it  not  been 
for  this  passing  fancy  of  his,  an  ideal  something 
for  which  to  strive,  he  probably  would  have  re- 
mained a  little  lawyer's  clerk  instead  of  becoming 
one  of  the  best  shorthand  writers  and  reporters  in 
England. 

For  four  years  of  his  life  —  four  important, 
useful  years  —  this  fancy  held  him,  quite  long 
enough  to  implant  within  him  a  very  permanent 
and  enduring  desire  to  succeed,  to  make  his  mark 
in  the  world;  quite  long  enough  to  carry  him  over 
every  difficulty  which  lay  in  the  path  he  had  chosen. 

We  must  not  laugh  at  these  early  fancies  of  boys 
and  girls.     They  may  mean  nothing  in  later  years, 


72  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

but  they  are  none  the  less  real  when  they  happen 
in  one's  youth,  and  love  peeps,  as  it  were,  through 
a  crack  in  the  door. 

In  later  years  Dickens  told  how  he  once  found 
himself  in  a  church  with  his  "  Angelica,"  as  he 
called  her.  He  remarked  to  her,  in  impassioned, 
high-flown  language,  that  their  union  should  take 
place  at  that  Altar  and  no  other,  adding  in  his 
whimsical  way,  that  it  certainly  never  did  take 
place  at  any  other. 

In  writing  about  birthdays  —  his  own  birthday 
especially  —  he  says : 

"  I  gave  a  party  on  the  occasion.  She  was  there. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  name  Her  more  particularly. 
She  was  older  than  I,  and  had  pervaded  every 
chink  and  crevice  of  my  mind  for  three  or  four 
years.  I  had  held  volumes  of  Imaginary  Conver- 
sations wath  Her  mother  on  the  subject  of  our 
union,  and  I  had  written  letters  more  in  number 
than  Horace  Walpole's,  to  that  discreet  woman, 
soliciting  her  daughter's  hand  in  marriage.  I 
had  never  the  remotest  intention  of  sending  these 
letters;  but  to  write  them,  and  after  a  few  days 
tear  them  up,  had  been  a  sublime  occupation." 

In  the  story,  David  Copperfield  passed  through 
this  transition  stage  long  before  he  met  his  Dora. 

"  Who  is  this  that  breaks  upon  me?  "  he  asks. 

"  This  is  Miss  Shepherd  whom  I  love.  [David 
must  have  been  twelve  at  that  time.]  Miss 
Shepherd  is  a  boarder  at  the  Misses   Nettingalls' 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  73 

establishment.  I  adore  Miss  Shepherd,  she  is  a 
little  girl  in  a  spencer,  with  a  round  face  and  curly- 
flaxen  hair.  The  Misses  Nettingalls'  young  ladies 
come  to  the  Cathedral.  ...  I  cannot  look 
upon  my  book  for  I  must  look  upon  Miss  Shepherd. 
When  the  Choristers  chaunt,  I  hear  Miss  Shepherd. 
In  the  service  I  mentally  insert  Miss  Shepherd's 
name  —  I  put  her  in  among  the  Royal  Family. 
At  home  in  my  own  room,  I  am  sometimes  moved 
to  cry  out  *  Oh,  Miss  Shepherd! '  in  a  transport  of 
love. 

"  For  sometime  I  am  doubtful  of  Miss  Shep- 
herd's feelings,  but  at  length.  Fate  being  propitious, 
we  meet  at  the  dancing-school.  I  have  Miss 
Shepherd  for  my  partner.  I  touch  Miss  Shep- 
herd's glove,  and  feel  a  thrill  go  up  the  right  arm 
of  my  jacket  and  come  out  at  my  hair.  I  say 
nothing  tender  to  Miss  Shepherd,  but  we  under- 
stand each  other.  Miss  Shepherd  and  myself  live 
but  to  be  united." 

After  this  passion  had  cooled  down,  there  was 
the  eldest  Miss  Larkins.  David  was  older  then  — 
quite  seventeen  —  quite  as  old,  indeed,  as  Charles 
Dickens  when  he  began  to  study  shorthand.  Miss 
Larkins  was  thirty,  but  what  matter!  Daznd 
adored  her.  Love  know^s  no  age,  and  so  he  was 
deliriously  happy  in  the  mere  delight  of  loving. 

Ah,  well!  The  Charles  Dickens  at  thirty-eight, 
who  wrote  the  history  of  David  Copperfield,  could 
afford  a  sly  laugh  at  that  other  Charles  Dickens 


74  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  his  youthful  loves,  but  these  innocent  boyish 
heart  fancies  did  no  harm. 

In  November,  1828,  Dickens  left  Ellis  and  Black- 
more's  office,  and  forever  turned  his  back  upon  the 
law  as  a  profession.  He  was  growing  daily  more 
proficient  with  his  shorthand,  and  the  first  em- 
ployment he  secured  was  that  of  a  reporter  in  the 
Lord  Chancellor's  Court,  taking  notes  of  the  cases. 
After  that  he  went  from  court  to  court,  even  re- 
porting police  cases,  and  after  nearly  two  years 
of  hard  work  and  active  service,  he  at  length 
reached  his  goal,  and  was  appointed  to  a  seat  in 
the  gallery  as  parliamentary  reporter,  shortly  be- 
fore he  was  nineteen. 

Dickens  was  not  always  accurate  in  counting  the 
flight  of  time.  So  much  was  crowded  into  his 
life  that  he  might  be  excused  for  the  discrepancy 
of  a  year  or  more.  He  says :  "  I  went  into  the 
gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons  as  a  parlia- 
mentary reporter  when  I  was  a  boy  not  eighteen," 
but  this  could  not  have  been  the  case,  for  close  cal- 
culations show  that  he  was  nineteen,  and  many 
proofs  bear  out  this  statement.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  not  to  stay  long  in  the  gallery  without  making 
his  mark.  He  found  himself  among  a  lot  of  am- 
bitious young  fellows,  of  a  different  type  from  the 
class  into  which  his  poverty  had  heretofore  thrown 
him,  and  he  was  quick  to  see  and  feel  this  dif- 
ference. He  began  this  interesting  part  of  his 
career  as  reporter  for  The  True  Sun,  and  connected 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  75 

with  this  paper  was  John  Forster,  who  was  to  be 
his  life-long  friend,  and  later  his  biographer. 

Two  beings  more  unlike  in  general  appearance 
could  not  be  conceived.  Charles  Dickens  was  slim 
and  well-proportioned,  with  a  finely-shaped  head 
atop  his  graceful  body,  a  head  where  the  hair  grew 
luxuriantly,  and,  worn  a  trifle  long,  was  brushed 
back  carelessly  from  an  intellectual  breadth  of  fore- 
head. John  Forster,  on  the  contrary,  was  of  ro- 
bust, thick-set  build,  something  like  the  renowned 
Dr.  Johnson,  who  lived  and  flourished  in  the  days 
of  Addison  and  Swift.  Like  Dr.  Johnson,  he  was 
loud  and  assertive.  He  loved  to  talk,  to  lead  in 
conversation,  and  always  expressed  himself  well 
and  fluently ;  but  he  was  clamorous  in  an  argument, 
and  swept  everything  before  him  in  a  volume  of 
sound. 

At  the  time  when  he  and  Dickens  found  them- 
selves fellow  reporters  in  the  parliamentary  gal- 
lery, he  was  simply  a  rollicking,  good-natured  young 
man,  with  his  mark  to  make  in  the  world  —  just 
like  the  slim  boy  who  attracted  him  so  much;  and 
his  critical  mind  soon  discovered  that  even  report- 
ing, fascinating  though  it  might  be,  was  not,  in- 
deed, the  final  goal  of  his  new  friend. 

The  love  between  these  two  was  very  sincere; 
no  changes  in  the  lives  of  either  ever  interrupted 
their  pleasant  intercourse,  and,  though  both  en- 
tered the  literary  field,  it  was  through  different 
gateways,    and    they    never    came    into    collision. 


7^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

John  Forster  was,  first  and  last,  a  critic,  and 
Dickens,  first  and  foremost,  a  writer  of  novels ; 
the  former  a  great  help  to  the  latter,  always  ready 
with  suggestions  and  criticism,  and  between  these 
two,  the  plots  and  characters  were  discussed  as 
seriously  as  though  they  were  real  individuals  and 
real  circumstances  of  life.  But  just  at  present, 
Charles  Dickens,  having  finished  the  study  of  law, 
had  taken  up  the  broader  field  of  English  politics, 
and  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  as  Charles  Dickens 
often  did,  at  the  pompous  representatives  of  the 
government,  at  the  same  time  proving  of  enormous 
value  as  a  reporter. 

In  the  course  of  his  service,  he  came  in  con- 
tact with  the  best  known  political  leaders  of  his 
day,  such  men  as  Brougham,  Lord  Stanley,  Peel, 
Grey,  Hume,  and  many  others  known  to  fame. 
Yet  the  reporter  of  nearly  a  century  back  had  a 
pretty  hard  time  of  it,  all  things  considered.  In 
a  speech  delivered  in  1865,  at  the  second  annual 
dinner  of  the  Newspaper  Press  Fund,  he  tells  of 
some  of  his  difficulties: 

"  I  have  pursued  the  calling  of  a  reporter  under 
circumstances  of  which  many  of  my  brethren,  at 
home  in  England  here  .  .  .  can  fonn  no 
adequate  conception.  I  have  often  transcribed  for 
the  printer,  from  my  shorthand  notes,  important 
public  speeches  in  which  the  strictest  accuracy  was 
required  .  .  .  writing  on  the  palm  of  my 
hand,  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern,   in  a  post- 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  ^77 

chaise  and  four,  galloping  through  a  wild  country 
and  through  the  dead  of  the  night  at  the  then  sur- 
prising rate  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  The  very 
last  time  I  was  at  Exeter,  I  strolled  into  the  castle 
yard,  there  to  identify — for  the  amusement  of  a 
friend  —  the  spot  on  which  I  once  *  took,'  as  we 
used  to  call  it,  an  election  speech  of  my  noble 
friend,  Lord  Russell,  in  the  midst  of  a  lively 
fight  maintained  by  all  the  vagabonds  in  that  divi- 
sion of  the  country,  and  under  such  a  pelting  rain 
that  I  remember  two  good-natured  colleagues,  who 
chanced  to  be  at  leisure,  held  a  pocket-handker- 
chief over  my  note-book,  after  the  manner  of  a 
state  canopy  in  an  ecclesiastical  procession.  I  have 
worn  my  knees  by  writing  on  them  on  the  old  back 
row  of  the  old  gallery  of  the  old  House  of  Com- 
mons; and  I  have  worn  my  feet  by  standing  to 
write  in  a  preposterous  pen  in  the  old  House  of 
Lords,  where  we  used  to  be  huddled  together  like 
so  many  sheep.  .  .  .  Returning  home  from 
excited  political  meetings  in  the  country,  to  the 
waiting  press  in  London,  I  do  verily  believe  I  have 
been  upset  in  almost  every  description  of  vehicle 
known  in  this  country.  I  have  been  belated  on 
miry  by-roads  towards  the  small  hours,  forty  or 
fifty  miles  from  London,  in  a  wheelless  carriage, 
with  exhausted  horses  and  drunken  postboys,  and 
have  got  back  in  time  for  publication.  ...  I 
have  never  forgotten  the  fascination  of  that  old 
pursuit.     The  pleasure  that  I  used  to  feel  in  the 


78  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

rapidity  and  dexterity  of  its  exercise,  has  never 
faded  out  of  my  breast.  Whatever  little  cunning 
of  hand  or  head  I  took  to  it  or  acquired  in  it,  I 
have  so  retained  as  that  I  fully  believe  I  could 
resume  it  to-morrow,  very  little  the  worse  from 
long  disuse.  To  this  present  year  of  my  life, 
when  I  sit  in  this  hall  or  where  not,  hearing  a  dull 
speech  —  the  phenomenon  does  occur — I  some- 
times beguile  the  tedium  of  the  moment,  by  men- 
tally following  the  speaker  in  the  old  way;  and 
sometimes,  if  you  can  believe  me,  I  find  my  hand 
going  on  the  table-cloth,  taking  an  imaginary  note 
of  it  all." 

Indeed,  the  old  calling  of  his  youth  was  never 
quite  thrown  aside,  and  it  is  remarkable  that 
twenty  years  after  he  left  the  gallery  he  taught 
the  art  of  shorthand  thoroughly  and  completely  to 
Henry  Austin,  his  young  brother-in-law,  who  was 
entering  the  career  of  journalism. 

Dickens  left  The  True  Sun  for  a  finer  position 
on  The  Mirror  of  Parliament,  edited  by  his 
mother's  brother,  John  Henry  Barrow,  and  it  was 
while  he  was  reporter  for  his  uncle's  paper  that 
he  wrote,  for  a  private  performance  in  his  own 
family,  a  sort  of  burlesque  of  "  Othello." 

Of  so  little  moment  or  account  did  his  writing 
seem  in  his  family  circle,  or  even  among  his  friends, 
that  this  special  bit  passed  quite  unnoticed.  It  was 
called  "O'Thello  (Part  of  the  Great  Unpaid)," 
and  would  not  have  been  remembered  at  all,  had  not 


THE  FIRST  START  IN  LIFE.  79 

one  sheet  of  the  original  manuscript,  in  his  own 
writing,  been  accidentally  saved  from  destruction. 
This  is  the  very  earliest  of  Dickens's  writings,  but 
even  the  novelist  himself  had  no  recollection  of  it. 
It  was  presented  by  John  Dickens  to  a  friend, 
with  this  note  at  the  top : 

"  This  page  is  from  an  unpublished  Travestie 
written  by  Air.  Charles  Dickens  for  private  per- 
formance in  his  own  family  (1833)  and  is  in  his 
own  handwriting.  The  *  Great  Unpaid  '  was  your 
humble  servant,  John  Dickens,  Alphingham,  6 
June,  1842." 

The  only  regret  of  the  friend  was  that  he  did 
not  take  the  whole  manuscript,  which  was  doubt- 
less destroyed  along  with  other  valuable  memen- 
tos. 

From  the  moment  Charles  put  his  active  young 
shoulders  to  the  wheel,  the  family  fortunes  began 
to  mend.  They  were  a  restless  family  still,  moving 
from  house  to  house,  but  always  to  a  better  house, 
in  a  better  street.  They  had  weathered  the  very 
heaviest  storms  of  adversity,  and  never  again  did 
poverty  look  in  at  their  windows,  although  it  had 
left  its  mark  upon  the  very  soul  of  the  young 
fellow  who  was  beginning,  slowly  but  surely,  to 
rise  above  his  surroundings. 

In  1834,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he  found 
himself  upon  the  staff  of  the  Morning  Chronicle , 
one  of  the  leading  London  papers,  a  formidable 
rival  of  the  Times.     He  had  won  great  distinction 


8o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

as  a  reporter,  he  loved  his  work,  but  in  that  ac- 
tive mind  of  his  there  was  a  something  pulHng 
him  in  another  direction,  and  pulling  with  such 
force  that  he  could  not  but  obey  its  call.  And  so, 
instead  of  becoming  the  greatest  newspaper  man 
in  the  country,  he  abruptly  left  the  field,  and  opened 
his  inkstand,  which  he  was  destined  never  to  close 
during  the  rest  of  his  life. 


PART  II. 
THE  YOUNG  MAN. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    FIRST   SPARKS   OF   GENIUS. 


[HORTLY  before  the  close  of  Dickens's 
career  as  a  reporter,  some  time  in  1833, 
he  wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  "  a  little  some- 
thing in  secret,"  sent  it  to  a  magazine, 
and  to  his  amazement,  it  appeared  in  December 
1833,  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  *"'  in  all  the  glory 
of  print." 

To  picture  his  excitement  over  this  unexpected 
event  would  be  impossible.  He  had  carried  his 
manuscript  stealthily  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
and  had  dropped  it  with  trembling  fingers  into  ''  a 
dark  letter-box,  in  a  dark  office,  in  a  dark  court  in 
Fleet  Street  —  the  office  of  the  Monthly  Maga- 
zine/' The  magazine  went  out  of  existence  long 
ago,  but  the  doorway  and  letter-box  through  which 
the  manuscript  w^as  dropped  are  in  the  possession 
of  an  ardent  Dickens  collector. 

The  "  little  something  "  was  a  humorous  sketch 
called  "A  Dinner  at  Poplar  Walk" — better 
known  to-day  as  "  Mr.  Minns  and  his  Cousin  " — 
and  we  of  the  present  generation  cannot  help  won- 
dering what  mysterious  quality  the  tale  possessed 
w^hich  had  the  power  of  pushing  its  unknown  author 

83 


84  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

to  the  very  threshold  of  fame.  Most  modern 
readers  would  call  it  nothing  but  a  silly  farce  — 
which,  indeed,  it  is  —  but,  written  in  the  days  when 
the  middle-class  English  folk  were  inclined  to  be 
a  trifle  snobbish,  the  little  sketch  was  full  of  living 
pictures  that  caught  the  eye  of  the  waiting  editor. 
The  wiles  of  a  scheming  family  to  get  into  the 
good  graces  of  a  rich  relation  was  a  picture  that 
the  great  writers  of  that  time  were  fond  of  paint- 
ing, and  the  fact  that  this  unknown  author  drew 
his  portraits  with  many  broad  strokes  closely  akin 
to  caricature  was  probably  the  chief  attraction. 

Let  us  see  what  this  young  fellow  of  twenty-one 
does  with  his  middle-aged  hero: 

"  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  was  a  bachelor,  of  about 
forty  as  he  said  —  of  about  eight-and-forty  as 
his  friends  said.  He  was  always  exceedingly 
clean,  precise  and  tidy  —  perhaps  somewhat  prig- 
gish, and  the  most  retiring  man  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  He  occupied  a  first  floor  in  Tavistock 
Street,  Covent  Garden,  where  he  had  resided  for 
twenty  years,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  quarrel- 
ing with  his  landlord  the  whole  time ;  regularly 
giving  notice  of  his  intention  to  quit  on  the  first 
day  of  every  quarter,  and  as  regularly  counter- 
manding it  on  the  second.  There  were  two  classes 
of  created  objects  which  he  held  in  the  deepest 
and  most  unmingled  horror;  these  were  dogs  and 
children.  He  was  not  unamiable,  but  he  could 
have  viewed  the  execution  of  a  dog,  or  the  assassi- 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  85 

nation  of  an  infant  with  the  livehest  satisfaction. 
Their  habits  were  at  variance  with  his  love  of 
order;  and  his  love  of  order  was  as  powerful  as 
his  love  of  life." 

Such  was  Mr.  Minns ;  and  the  rather  unruly 
adventures  of  that  staid  gentleman  formed  the 
pivot  of  the  tale.  The  far-seeing  editor  detected 
a  new  current  running  through  an  old  theme,  and 
the  bare  fact  of  its  acceptance  gave  the  young 
writer  heart  and  courage  to  try  again  and  again. 

There  were  nine  "  Sketches  "  in  all  that  he  con- 
tributed to  the  same  magazine,  the  last  appearing 
in  February,  1835.  Most  of  them  were  unsigned 
until  August,  1834,  when  the  pen-name  of  "Boz" 
made  its  first  bow  to  the  public,  signed  to  a  bur- 
lesque sketch,  called  "  The  Boarding  House," 
chiefly  remarkable  for  the  many  characters,  each 
one  a  distinct  and  living  person,  to  be  found  within 
the  limits  of  so  short  a  story.  Each  one  of  these 
nine  "  Sketches  "  was  a  clever  hit  at  some  special 
little  human  weakness,  as  illustrated  by  his  central 
character.  He  was  particularly  hard  on  old  bach- 
elors—  this  boy  of  twenty-two  —  ascribing  to 
them  the  most  ferocious  characteristics,  especially 
emphasizing  their  hatred  of  babies  and  small  chil- 
dren in  general;  old  maids  he  laughed  at  in  his 
genial  way;  and  scheming  Mammas,  pert  young 
ladies,  cockney  clerks,  grasping  landladies,  and 
meek  husbands  figured  in  his  tales,  all  so  vividly 
colored  that  we  seem  to  have  met  them  before. 

7 


86  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

This  connection  with  the  Monthly  Magazine 
lasted  from  December,  1833,  to  February,  1835, 
and  then,  as  the  magazine  could  no  longer  hold 
itself  together,  Dickens  had  to  look  about  for 
some  place  where  his  work  would  sell,  for  hitherto 
his  contributions  had  been  entirely  complimen- 
tary. 

It  chanced  at  this  time  that  the  Morning  Chron- 
icle, for  which  Dickens  was  reporting,  was  about 
to  issue  an  evening  edition  called  the  Evening 
Chronicle,  with  Mr.  George  Hogarth  as  editor-in- 
chief.  Dickens  knew  Hr.  Hogarth  and  his  family 
quite  well,  a  delightful  family  as  the  young  man 
soon  found  out,  for  he  grew  to  be  quite  intimate 
with  the  three  charming  daughters,  Catharine, 
Mary  and  Georgina  —  so  intimate,  in  fact,  that  a 
delicious  little  romance  took  root  and  flourished, 
between  him  and  the  eldest  daughter,  Catharine  — 
but  this  was  later.  At  present  Mr.  Hogarth  was 
chiefly  concerned  in  procuring  a  contribution  from 
Dickens  for  the  first  number  of  the  new  enter- 
prise. 

Dickens  for  many  reasons  was  anxious  to  oblige 
his  friend,  but  he  wrote  to  him  first,  saying  frankly 
that  he  should  like  to  be  paid  at  least  some  trifling 
sum  for  each  sketch,  over  and  above  the  salary  he 
received  as  a  reporter.  His  request  was  consid- 
ered reasonable,  and  as  a  consequence  he  received 
seven,  instead  of  five  guineas  a  week,  with  the 
stipulation  that  he  should  do  a  series  of  articles  in 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  87 

the  style  of  the  "  Sketches  "  which  he  had  done 
for  the  Monthly  Magadne. 

Now  if  there  was  one  thing  he  knew  more  about 
than  people,  it  was  London,  and  so  he  gave  to  his 
waiting  readers  his  "  Sketches  of  London,"  full 
of  the  life  of  the  streets  he  loved.  The  first  of 
these  sketches  was  "  Hackney-coach  Stands," 
written  at  a  time  when  the  hackney-coach  was 
giving  place  to  the  cheaper  and  more  popular 
omnibus  —  a  plea  for  the  old-time  splendor  of 
the  hackney-coach,  and  a  sigh  that  it  should 
descend  at  last  to  waiting  at  a  stand  for  possible 
customers. 

''Talk  of  cabs!"  he  exclaims  in  conclusion. 
"  Cabs  are  all  very  well  in  cases  of  expedition 
when  it's  a  matter  of  neck  or  nothing,  life  or  death, 
your  temporary  home  or  your  long  one.  But  be- 
side a  cab's  lacking  that  gravity  of  deportment 
which  so  peculiarly  distinguishes  a  hackney-coach, 
let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  a  cab  is  a  thing  of 
yesterday,  and  that  he  never  was  anything  better. 
A  hackney-cab  has  always  been  a  hackney-cab 
from  his  first  entry  into  public  life;  whereas  a 
hackney-coach  is  a  remnant  of  past  gentility,  a 
victim  of  fashion,  a  hanger-on  of  an  old  English 
family,  wearing  their  arms,  and  in  days  of  yore 
escorted  by  men  wearing  their  livery,  stripped  of 
his  finery,  and  thrown  upon  the  world  like  a  once- 
smart  footman,  when  he  is  no  longer  sufficiently 
juvenile  for  his  office,  progressing  lower  and  lower 


88  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

in  the  scale  of  four-wheeled  degradation,  until  at 
last  it  comes  to  —  a  stand !  " 

In  this  series  are  his  Sketches  of  London  Streets 
in  the  morning  and  at  night  —  both  very  effective 
and  vivid  pictures. 

Dickens's  morning  in  the  London  streets  begins 
with  the  first  peep  of  dawn,  and  we  follow  his 
guiding  finger  until  "  the  sun  darts  his  bright  rays 
cheerfully  down  the  still  half  empty  street."  We 
cannot  help  smiling  when  with  him  we  encounter 
"  small  office  lads  in  large  hats,  who  are  made  men 
before  they  are  boys,  hurrying  along  in  pairs,  with 
their  first  coat  carefully  brushed,  and  the  white 
trousers  of  last  Sunday  plentifully  besmeared  with 
dust  and  ink  " —  for  we  know  he  had  in  mind  a 
certain  small  boy  who  trudged  these  same  streets 
in  the  early  morning. 

Night  in  London,  he  paints  even  more  attrac- 
tively; his  description  of  the  muffin-boy  is  enough 
to  produce  a  yearning  for  muffins  beyond  all  ex- 
pression : 

"  In  the  suburbs,  the  muffin-boy  rings  his  way 
down  the  street  much  more  slowly  than  he  is  wont 
to  do;  for  Mrs.  Macklin  of  No.  4  has  no  sooner 
opened  her  little  street-door,  and  screamed  out 
'  Muffins ! '  with  all  her  might,  than  Mrs.  Walker 
of  No.  5  puts  her  head  out  of  the  parlor  window 
and  screams  '  Muffins ! '  too ;  and  Mrs.  Walker  has 
scarcely  got  the  words  out  of  her  lips,  than  Mrs. 
Peplow,  over  the  way,  lets  loose  Master  Peplow, 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  89 

who  darts  down  the  street  with  a  velocity  which 
nothing  but  buttered  muffins  in  perspective  could 
possibly  inspire,  and  drags  the  boy  back  by  main 
force,  whereupon  Mrs.  Macklin  and  Mrs.  Walker, 
just  to  save  the  boy  trouble,  and  to  say  a  few  neigh- 
borly words  to  Mrs.  Peplow  at  the  same  time,  run 
over  the  way  and  buy  their  muffins  at  Mrs.  Peplow's 
door  .  .  ."  and  whoever  reads  this  stirring  de- 
scription has  a  longing  for  buttered  muffins,  which 
only  buttered  muffins  can  satisfy. 

These  little  touches  give  us  the  key  to  Dickens's 
wonderful  powers.  At  wall,  he  could  set  a  feast 
before  us  and  make  us  smack  our  lips;  he  could 
make  us  laugh  one  moment  and  cry  the  next;  he 
touched  the  sensitive  strings  of  the  human  heart 
from  the  very  beginning  —  with  the  hand  of  a 
master,  and,  though  his  pictures  were  often  crude 
and  glaringly  colored,  the  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren he  put  upon  his  canvas  really  lived  and 
breathed;  the  world  he  wrote  about  was  a  real 
world ;  and  the  things  that  happened  were  not  im- 
probabilities, but  what  we  are  sure  must  have  really 
happened  in  the  course  of  the  story. 

The  "  Sketches  by  Boz,"  rough  as  they  are,  bub- 
ble and  sparkle  with  real  life.  Any  contemporary 
of  young  Charles  Dickens  could  have  threaded 
the  network  of  London  streets  and  seen  just  the 
things  so  vividly  portrayed  in  these  "  Sketches." 
Dickens  himself  says  of  them  in  his  preface: 

*'  The  whole  of  these  Sketches  were  written  and 


90  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

published  one  by  one.,  when  I  was  a  very  young 
man.  They  were  collected  and  re-published  while 
I  was  still  a  very  young  man;  and  sent  into  the 
world  with  all  their  imperfections  (a  good  many) 
on  their  heads. 

*'  They  comprise  my  first  attempts  at  authorship, 
with  the  exception  of  certain  tragedies  achieved  at 
the  mature  age  of  eight  or  ten,  and  represented 
with  great  applause  to  overflowing  nurseries.  I 
am  conscious  of  their  often  being  extremely  crude 
and  ill-considered,  and  bearing  obvious  marks  of 
haste  and  inexperience     .     .     ." 

This  was  quite  true,  but  at  the  same  time  they 
were  sincere  efforts  in  a  new  and  untried  field, 
and  were  beginning  to  bring  their  writer  —  if  not 
fame  —  at  least  a  certain  amount  of  public  notice, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  substantial  addition  to  his  in- 
come. 

As  early  as  1833,  while  still  on  the  staff  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  he  decided  to  start  a  home 
of  his  ow^n.  Knowing  how  fond  he  was  of  his 
family,  we  cannot  help  wondering  why,  for  his 
father  had  come  up  in  the  world  and  was  living 
in  some  degree  of  ease  and  comfort  in  Bentinck 
Street.  But  we  must  not  forget  that  the  family 
was  a  large  one  and  by  no  means  a  quiet  one ;  that 
his  writing  required  uninterrupted  privacy;  and, 
last  but  not  least,  he  did  not  wish  his  growling  in- 
timacy with  the  Hogarths  to  be  the  subject  of 
family  discussion,  for  at  that  particular  time  it  is 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  91 

fairly  certain  that  he  was  in  love  with  all  the 
young  ladies,  finding  it,  indeed,  a  difficult  matter 
to  make  a  choice,  for  they  were  all  charming. 

The  first  apartments  of  this  young  bachelor  were 
in  Cecil  Street  (Strand),  but  the  cooking  was  hor- 
rible, the  attention  to  his  very  modest  needs  was 
of  the  slightest,  and  so  he  moved  to  Buckingham 
Street,  into  rooms  on  the  top  floor,  the  same  prob- 
ably which  David  Copperfield  described  as  being 
"  on  the  top  floor  of  the  house  .  .  .  and  con- 
sisted of  a  little  half-blind  entry  —  where  you  could 
see  hardly  anything,  a  little  stone-blind  pantry 
where  you  could  see  nothing  at  all,  a  sitting-room 
and  a  bedroom.  The  furniture  was  rather  faded, 
but  quite  good  enough  for  me ;  and  sure  enough  the 
river  was  outside  the  windows." 

In  1834  he  moved  to  chambers  in  Furnivals' 
Inn,  Holborn,  where  his  first  rooms  consisted  of 
a  "three-pair-back"  at  No.  13,  and  here  many  of 
the  later  "  Sketches "  were  written.  But  finally 
he  moved  into  No.  15,  renting  a  "three-pair-floor- 
south,"  which  was  a  vast  improvement  on  No.  13, 
for  the  rooms  were  large  and  airy,  and  there  were 
plenty  of  bachelor  comforts  all  around  him. 

"  There  is  little  enough  to  see  in  Furnivals'  Inn," 
he  tells  us  in  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit."  "  It  is  a  shady, 
quiet  place,  echoing  to  the  footsteps  of  those  who 
have  business  there,  and  rather  monotonous  and 
gloomy  on  Sunday  Evenings." 

Just    at   this    time    life   was   changing    for   him 


92  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

at  every  point;  he  became  engaged  to  Miss  Catha- 
rine Thomson  Hogarth,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
George  Hogarth,  and  during  the  happy  days  of 
courtship  plans  were  afoot  for  him  to  write  a 
series  of  humorous  articles  suggested  by  a  series 
of  sketches  by  Seymour,  the  well-known  artist. 

The  firm  of  Chapman  &  Hall,  who  approached 
the  young  author  on  the  subject,  was  just  estab- 
lished, and  as  early  as  November,  1835,  had  pub- 
lished a  little  book  illustrated  by  Seymour,  called 
the  "  Squib  Annual."  The  artist  suggested  another 
book,  preferably  one  of  sporting  life,  and  Dickens 
was  asked  what  he  could  do  in  that  line.  The  re- 
sult was  the  origin  of  the  Pickwick  Club,  and  the 
creation  of  the  immortal  Mr.  Pickwick.  These 
Sketches  were  to  form  part  of  a  continued  tale, 
given  to  the  public  in  monthly  installments,  and 
John  Forster,  his  friend  and  biographer,  remarks 
upon  certain  coincident  dates;  the  first  number  of 
"Pickwick  '*  appeared  in  April,  1836,  and  on  April 
2,  of  the  same  year,  he  and  Miss  Hogarth  were 
married  very  quietly. 

This  date,  strangely  enough,  was  his  friend's 
birthday,  and  always  after  that  the  event  was 
celebrated  most  appropriately  —  John  Forster 
usually  making  a  third  at  their  little  anniversary 
dinner.  And  another  thing,  equally  strange,  was 
the  origin  of  the  goggle-eyed,  round-faced,  ador- 
able Mr.  Pickwick.  As  he  was  to  be  illustrated, 
there   were  naturally  many  suggestions   as  to  his 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  93 

face  and  figure.  Seymour's  idea  was  a  long,  thin 
man,  but  this  was  not  Dickens's  own  conception, 
and  certainly  did  not  fit  in  with  his  description  of  the 
dear,  placid,  childlike  old  hero.  Finally,  after  much 
fruitless  discussion,  Mr.  Chapman  himself  came  to 
the  rescue  and  suggested  a  friend  of  his,  who  lived 
at  Richmond,  a  fat,  good-humored  old  fellow  who 
would  persist  in  w^earing  drab  tights  and  black 
gaiters,  and  who  —  strange  to  say  —  bore  the  name 
of  John  Foster.  Dickens  noticed  that  the  two 
names  (that  of  his  friend,  John  Forster,  being  the 
second)  were  not  spelled  alike,  but  he  was  a  person 
who  always  enjoyed  the  odd  happenings  in  life, 
and  the  fact  that  there  was  another  John  Foster 
in  the  world  seemed  to  tickle  his  fancy  and  stir 
his  imagination.  Seymour  produced  an  excellent 
portrait  from  Mr.  Chapman's  description,  and 
though  he  died  when  but  twenty- four  pages  of  the 
book  were  published,  the  rotund,  placid  Mr.  Pick- 
wick held  his  own  through  all  successive  numbers. 

With  the  first  issue  of  "  Pickwick,"  Dickens  at 
the  age  of  twenty-four  brought  his  young  bride 
home  to  Furnivals'  Inn,  where  they  were  very  cozy 
and  happy  for  a  blissful  year.  It  was  an  unpre- 
tentious little  w^edding,  with  a  quiet  family  break- 
fast after  the  ceremony,  and  a  brief  hone}Tnoon 
in  the  little  village  of  Chalk,  about  five  miles  from 
Rochester  and  two  from  Gravesend,  with  Chatham 
not  far  off ;  and  somewhere  within  driving  or  walk- 
ing distance  loomed  the  old   Gad's   Hill.     It  was 


94  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

but  natural  that  the  young  fellow  should  wish  to 
show  his  wife  the  haunts  of  his  little  boyhood, 
to  talk  to  her  of  his  childish  dreams  and  aspirations, 
and  to  point  laughingly  to  Gad's  Hill,  saying: 
"  There  is  my  goal  —  that  red  brick  mansion  on 
the  summit  will  one  day  be  my  Castle,  my  pen 
is  the  key  which  will  open  all  the  doors  that  bar 
the  way."  And  the  two  happy  young  things  built 
their  air-castles  as  the  boy  had  built  his  long,  long 
ago,  only  the  man  now  held  the  key  in  his  hand, 
while  the  little  boy  had  stood  with  his  hands  in 
his  empty  pockets,  and  had  just  looked  and  looked 
—  and  longed  with  all  his  lonely  little  heart. 

Then  back  to  Furnivals'  Inn  they  went,  and 
Dickens  started  on  the  second  number  of  "  Pick- 
wick," with  Seymour  still  as  illustrator,  but  his 
sudden  and  tragic  death  shortly  after  made  the 
publishers  cast  about  for  a  new  artist.  Robert 
W.  Buss,  whom  they  secured,  proved  most  un- 
satisfactory; his  etchings  were  beautiful,  but  the 
text  needed  broader  lines  of  humor,  and  so,  after 
one  or  two  efforts,  they  gave  him  up.  There  were 
many  applicants  for  the  vacant  post,  among  them 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  whose  drawings 
Dickens  did  not  consider  suitable,  and  John  Leech, 
too,  was  turned  down;  but  at  length  an  artist  was 
found  in  the  person  of  Hablot  K.  Browne,  and 
from  that  time  forward  he  seemed  the  person  best 
calculated  to  follow  the  queer  turnings  and  twist- 
ings  of  that  most  strange  and  original  mind. 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  95 

The  two  worked  splendidly  together.  Browne 
adopted  the  name  of  "  Phiz  "  to  correspond  with 
the  name  of  "  Boz,"  and  the  "  Pickwick"  numbers 
went  steadily  on.  According  to  his  arrangements 
with  his  publishers,  Dickens  received  fourteen 
pounds  and  ten  shillings  each  month,  as  the  num- 
bers appeared.  This  was  considered  very  gener- 
ous payment,  and  the  first  two  months  were  paid 
in  advance  as  he  needed  money  for  his  honeymoon. 

Strange  to  say  —  yet  not  so  strange  if  one  cares 
to  review  dear  old  '^  Pickwick "  from  cover  to 
cover  —  the  installments  at  first  did  not  prove  very 
popular.  One's  interest  in  the  four  members  of 
the  Pickwick  Club  who  sallied  forth  to  study  con- 
ditions was  of  a  mild  sort,  untempered  by  enthu- 
siasm, and  it  was  not  until  Part  VI,  where  Sam 
Weller  made  his  appearance,  that  the  public  felt 
the  least  throb  of  interest.  The  jovial,  philosoph- 
ical, lovable  Samuel  increased  the  circulation  from 
fifty  copies  of  each  number  to  forty  thousand,  thus 
reviving  the  dying  hopes  of  the  publishers,  who 
were  nearly  ready  to  give  up  the  scheme.  In- 
stead, they  fell  into  such  rejoicing  that  they  sent 
the  young  writer  a  check  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
as  a  mark  of  appreciation,  when  the  twelfth  num- 
ber was  reached ;  and,  by  the  time  the  twenty  num- 
bers were  completed,  Chapman  and  Hall  had  made 
fourteen  thousand  pounds  by  the  sale  In  numbers 
only,  and  to  the  elated  young  author  they  not  only 
paid    the    stipulated    salary,    but    three    thousand 


96  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

pounds  besides,  so  popular  had  "  Pickwick "  be- 
come in  the  interim. 

The  highly  colored  background  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick's  chatty  young  servant  threw  the  drab  tights 
and  black  gaiters  of  the  old  gentleman  into  excel- 
lent relief,  for  the  inimitable  Samuel  loved  his  mas- 
ter, and  was  continually  talking  about  his  good 
points.  "  *  Bless  his  old  gaiters,'  rejoined  Sam, 
looking  out  at  the  garden  door.  *  He's  a-keepin' 
guard  in  the  lane  with  that  ere  dark  lantern,  like 
a  amiable  Guy  Fawkes!  I  never  see  such  a  fine 
creetur  in  all  my  days.  Blessed  if  I  don't  think 
his  heart  must  have  been  born  five-and-twenty 
years  arter  his  body  at  least.'  " 

And  Sam's  devotion  to  his  master  was  too  gen- 
uine to  hide  even  beneath  the  thick  crust  of  ridicu- 
lous events  which  were  making  that  poor  gentleman 
a  laughing-stock  to  friends  and  foes  alike. 

^'  *  No  man  serves  him  but  me,  and  now  we're 
upon  it,  I'll  let  you  into  another  secret  besides 
that,'  "  said  Sam  to  Job  Trotter.  '^ '  I  never  heerd, 
mind  you,  nor  read  of  in  story-books,  nor  seen  in 
picters,  any  angel  in  tights  and  gaiters  —  not  even 
in  spectacles,  as  I  remember,  though  that  may  ha' 
been  done  for  anythin'  I  know  to  the  contrairy  — 
but  mark  my  words,  Job  Trotter,  he's  a  regular 
thorough-bred  angel  for  all  that,  and  let  me  see 
the  man  as  wentures  to  tell  me  he  knows  a  better 
vun.'  " 

As  number  after  number  of  the  ''  Pickwick  Pa- 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  97. 

pers "  appeared,  just  so  steadily  did  the  public 
interest  increase.  Yet  what  was  the  secret  of  its 
immense  popularity  it  would  be  hard  to  explain. 
There  is  no  story  to  hold  it  together,  and  the 
adventures  of  Messrs.  Pickwick,  Tupnian,  Snod- 
grass  and  Winkle,  certainly  fail  to  reflect  much 
credit  on  their  common-sense.  Every  person  de- 
scribed by  Dickens  in  this  immortal  work,  was 
drawn  upon  the  very  broadest  lines  of  caricature. 
All  the  situations  are  farcical,  yet  people  talked 
of  it  all  over  London,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor, 
young  people  and  old,  hailed  the  coming  of  each 
number,  and  one  desperately  ill  person,  with 
scarcely  a  step  between  himself  and  the  grave, 
was  heard  to  exclaim,  "  Well,  thank  God,  *  Pick- 
wick '  will  be  out  in  ten  days  anyway !  " 

A  new  note  had  been  struck  in  the  literary 
world;  the  young  author,  pen  in  hand,  looked  on 
in  amazement  at  the  sensation  he  had  created. 
It  was  so  easy  for  him  to  write  of  people  and 
their  manners  that  he  did  not  realize,  at  first, 
the  hold  he  had  upon  his  readers,  and  then  sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  all  his  good  fortune,  came 
his  first  terrible  sorrow. 

On  January  6,  1837,  his  eldest  son  was  born, 
in  the  old  rooms  at  Furnivals'  Inn,  and  of  course 
there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  household.  But 
the  dear  familiar  quarters  were  too  cramped  for 
even  a  very  little  new  baby,  so  they  moved  to  No. 
48,    Doughty   Street,   and   with   them   went   Mrs. 


98  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Dickens's  next  younger  sister,  Mary  Hogarth,  a 
lovely  girl,  of  whom  Dickens  was  exceedingly  fond. 
She  died  very  suddenly,  after  an  evening  which 
they  had  spent  pleasantly  together  at  the  theater. 
She  breathed  her  last  in  his  arms,  and  the  shock  — 
no  less  than  the  sincere  grief  —  prostrated  him 
for  many  weeks,  during  which  time  his  pen  lay 
idle,  while  the  public  clamored  in  vain  for  the 
thirteenth  installment  of  **  Pickwick,"  and  the 
serial  was  interrupted  for  a  whole  month  to 
give  the  young  author  time  to  regain  his  mental 
balance. 

From  the  first,  Dickens  had  always  shown  the 
most  romantic  affection  for  all  the  Hogarth  girls, 
and  many  believe  that  in  choosing  a  wife,  he  was 
absolutely  impartial,  as  he  loved  them  all  alike. 
For  Mary,  after  his  marriage,  he  had  all  the  affec- 
tion of  a  brother,  and  the  memory  of  her  haunted 
many  of  his  stories.  He  himself  wrote  the  epitaph 
on  the  simple  gravestone  at  Kensalgreen :. 

"  Young,  beautiful,  and  good,  God  numbered 
her  among  his  angels  at  the  early  age  of  seven- 
teen." 

Many  of  us  know  that  exquisite  poem  of  Long- 
fellow's called  "  Resignation,"  and  there  is  one 
stanza  which  fits  in  peculiarly  just  here: 

Let  us  be  patient ;  these  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  99 

This  was  true  in  Dickens's  case.  His  love  of 
girls  and  their  ways,  and  their  numberless  graces, 
dates  more  especially  from  those  days  when  he 
knew  and  loved  and  mourned  for  Mary  Hogarth. 
She  became  to  him  a  symbol  of  all  that  was  love- 
liest in  girlhood,  and  out  of  his  grief  he  built  im- 
mortal monuments  to  her  memory,  in  the  forms  of 
the  girls  which  flit  through  his  books,  girls  who 
delight  us  at  every  turn  and  live  in  our  minds  as 
permanently  as  Mr.  Pickwick  or  even  Sam  Weller. 

Hitherto  his  books  had  been  singularly  lacking 
in  a  certain  charming  element  which  later  on  was 
to  temper  the  fun  and  soften  all  the  too  vivid  color 
in  his  work,  but  from  the  time  of  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby,"  his  next  book,  we  find  distinct  touches 
which  show  how  the  death  of  this  one  young  girl 
wrapped  its  influence  about  his  whole  life.  Hith- 
erto girls  had  played  no  part  in  his  writing;  from 
now  on  he  studied  them  with  the  result  that  prob- 
ably no  writer  of  his  time  knew  them  half  as  well, 
or  gave  to  the  world  such  living  portraits. 

His  pen,  we  must  remember,  was  a  magic  wand ; 
all  that  it  touched  became  real,  and  as,  from  now 
on,  we  meet  the  girls  who  were  his  children,  we 
know  that  once  they  really  lived. 

This  was  Marv^  Hogarth's  precious  legacy  to 
him,  and  through  her  death  he  became  master  of 
many  gifts  heretofore  unnoticed  in  his  work  — 
the  gift  of  pathos  more  than  all.  He  had  seen 
death,  he  had  felt  its  pangs,  he  had  sorrowed,  and 


ICX>  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

SO  he  could  write  of  death  and  sorrow  as  he  had 
never  done  before,  giving  that  touch  which  can 
draw  unexpected  tears  at  unexpected  moments. 

Many  modern  writers  and  critics  contend  that 
Dickens  Hngered  too  much  over  these  painful 
scenes,  but  we  must  not  forget  that  the  people  he 
sent  out  of  the  world  were  real  people  to  him  and 
to  those  who  read  his  books,  and  as  real  people 
they  had  to  live  and  die  in  the  most  natural  way, 
while  they  also  lived  and  laughed  in  quite  as  natural 
a  fashion. 

Dickens  put  whole  sermons  into  these  somber 
scenes;  he  never,  on  any  account,  in  any  of  his 
books,  stayed  away  from  a  funeral ;  he  was  always 
there,  to  still  the  grief  and  say  the  timely  word  in 
his  own  pathetic  way,  living  over  in  each  instance 
that  never-to-be-forgotten  time  when  Mary  Hogarth 
died. 

But,  once  recovered  from  the  shock,  he  took  up 
his  pen  again,  and  "  Pickwick  "  went  on  smoothly 
to  the  end,  while  the  public  smacked  its  lips  over 
each  installment,  and  the  publishers  and  author 
raked  in  a  harvest  beyond  all  their  dreams. 

No  hint  of  sorrow  or  death  marred  the  lightness 
of  touch  which  the  artist  lent  to  this  frolicsome 
masterpiece.  But  he  still  hid  behind  the  pen-name 
of  "  Boz,"  while  the  world  wondered  who  this 
"  Boz "  could  be,  who  could  write  so  vividly  of 
so  many  people  and  situations.  "  Pickwick  "  be- 
came the  most  popular  name  in  the  English  Ian- 


THE  FIRST  SPARKS  OF  GENIUS.  XOI, 

guage,  and  it  was  even  used  by  shop-keepers,  to 
advertise  their  articles,  and  to-day  we  come  across 
The  Pickwick  Club,  the  Pickwick  cigar,  the  Pick- 
wick pen,  and  many  other  things  as  odd  in  their 
way  as  the  deHghtful  old  gentleman  in  the  drab 
tights  and  black  gaiters. 

Thackeray  considered  "  Pickwick  "  a  great  con- 
temporary history  of  the  English  people,  and  cer- 
tain it  is  that  it  placed  the  young  author,  at  twenty- 
four,  high  on  the  ladder  of  fame.  Thackeray  was 
thirty-six  when  he  achieved  his  first  success  in 
^*  Vanity  Fair  " ;  George  Eliot  was  forty  when  she 
wrote  "  Adam  Bede  "  ;  and  Scott  was  at  least  forty- 
three  when  "  Waverley  "  appeared,  the  first  of  the 
famous  Waverley  novels. 

It  was  a  dizzy  height  to  reach  all  of  a  sudden, 
but  Charles  Dickens  was  too  sure-footed  to  fall; 
his  keen,  alert  eyes  were  looking  deep  into  the  heart 
of  the  world;  and  his  pen  was  poised  to  write  of 
what  he  found  there. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  FIRST  NOVELS  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  THEM. 


HE  brilliant  young  author  —  now  fairly 
launched  upon  his  career  with  no 
thought  nor  care  for  the  morrow  — 
could  look  ahead  and  plan  how  best  to 
do  his  work.  While  still  engaged  upon  "  Pick- 
wick," orders  and  demands  poured  in  upon  him 
and  his  pen  was  never  at  rest.  The  people  —  espe- 
cially the  London  people  —  being  always  in  his 
mind,  even  in  those  early  days,  he  wrote  a  little 
article  in  their  behalf,  entitled  "  Sunday  under 
Three  Heads."  The  House  of  Commons  had 
passed  some  very  rigid  laws  about  the  observance 
of  the  Sabbath,  and  Dickens's  paper  was  a  plea  for 
the  poor  and  the  little  excursions  and  simple  pleas- 
ures which  they  could  only  enjoy  of  a  Sunday. 
This  did  not  bear  his  own  signature  —  he  signed 
himself  "Timothy  Sparks" — but  it  was  forcible 
enough  to  make  some  impression,  for  the  Museums 
and  picture  galleries  were  thereafter  kept  open  on 
Sundays. 

At  this  time,  too  (1836),  he  wrote  a  small  farce 
called  ''  The  Strange  Gentleman,"  which  was  pro- 
duced, with   fair  success,  in  the  new  St.  James's 

102 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  103 

Theater.  Even  before  this  he  had  combined  with 
John  Hullah,  a  young  musical  composer  of  his  own 
age,  and  set  to  his  music  a  little  piece  which  he 
called  "  The  Village  Coquette/'  and  it  was  played 
in  London  and  in  Edinburgh.  Dickens  never  took 
much  credit  for  this  work,  it  was  plainly  written 
to  fit  in  with  the  music.  Another  farce  called  "  Is 
She  His  Wife?  or,  Something  Singular! ''  was  also 
reeled  off  at  this  period,  and  there  is  yet  a  fourth, 
called  "  The  Lamplighter,"  which  was  written  for 
Macready,  but  which  never  saw  the  light.  Later 
Dickens  turned  it  into  **  The  Lamplighter's  Story," 
which  was  published  with  other  stories  and  essays 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Pic  Nic  Papers,"  and  with 
his  well-known  generosity  Dickens  gave  the  pro- 
ceeds to  the  destitute  family  of  Macrone,  one  of 
his  early  publishers. 

When  **  Pickwick  "  had  reached  its  tenth  num- 
ber, Dickens  agreed  with  another  publisher,  Richard 
Bentley,  to  edit  a  new  monthly  magazine  to  be 
called  Bentley' s  Miscellany  and  to  contribute  a 
serial  story.  Accordingly,  in  the  second  number 
he  presented  the  opening  chapter  of  *'  Oliver 
Twist,"  by  many  conceded  to  be  the  most  powerful 
and  dramatic  of  all  his  stories.  It  was  begun  in 
February  and  finished  in  September,  1838. 

We  cannot  help  wondering  at  the  enormous 
energy  of  this  young  man.  His  mind  worked  like 
a  steam-engine;  he  carried  at  one  time  not  only 
''Pickwick"   and   "Oliver   Twist,"   but   in   April, 


104  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

1838,  "  Pickwick  "  being  concluded,  the  first  num- 
ber of  "  Nicholas  Nickleby "  took  its  place,  and 
Dickens,  fresh  from  the  dramatic  interest  of  one 
stor}^,  could  plunge  into  the  pathos  of  the  other 
without  the  confusion  of  style  or  the  mixing  of 
plots.  Added  to  all  this,  were  constant  contribu- 
tions to  Bentley's  Miscellany  on  various  subjects, 
the  first  being  "  Public  Life  of  Mr.  Tulrumble, 
once  Mayor  of  Mudfog,"  the  beginning  of  a  series 
called  "The  Mudfog  Papers."  The  Mudfog 
Association  was  founded  for  the  "  Advancement 
of  Everything."  This  gave  the  young  editor  great 
scope  for  a  laugh  and  a  slap  at  many  time-honored 
public  institutions,  and  he  certainly  hit  hard  and 
laughed  merrily  —  it  was  his  way. 

Anonymous  writing  was  very  much  the  rage  in 
Dickens's  day,  and  in  1839  a  little  book  was  pub- 
lished by  Chapman,  Hall  &  Co.,  called  "  Sketches 
of  Young  Ladies."  It  was  a  handful  of  rude  and 
satirical  essays  on  the  peculiarities  and  w^eak- 
nesses  of  Young  Ladies,  and  w^as  signed  "  Quiz." 
Dickens  at  once  came  to  their  defense,  and,  under 
the  same  pen-name,  attacked  "  Young  Gentlemen  " 
in  a  series  of  Sketches  written  in  the  same  style; 
later  on  he  wrote  "  Sketches  of  Young  Couples," 
and  these  were  all  collected  in  book  form,  and  were 
daintily  illustrated  by  "Phiz"  (Hablot  K. 
Browne) ;  but  Dickens  himself  calls  this  collection 
"  a  poor  thing  of  little  worth,"  and  apart  from  the 
illustrations  and  a  certain  broad  humor,   we  can 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  105 

detect  nothing  of  greatness  in  these  commonplace 
little  essays. 

He  was  also  engaged  at  this  time  in  editing  the 
"  Memoirs  of  Joseph  Grimaldi,"  the  famous  clown, 
who  was  one  of  the  earliest  recollections  of  his 
childhood.  Any  ordinary  man  would  have  stag- 
gered under  the  weight  of  work  such  as  Dickens 
carried,  but  not  so  this  active  young  enthusiast. 
The  more  he  had  to  do,  the  more  he  enjoyed  him- 
self, and  he  juggled  first  with  one  thing  and  then 
with  another,  in  the  most  amazing  manner.  His 
brain  was  seething  with  a  thousand  fancies  —  his 
heart  was  beating  with  a  thousand  hopes.  He  was 
eager  —  not  only  to  show  the  world  what  he  could 
do,  but  to  do  something  for  that  world  which  he 
loved  —  the  world  which  had  been  kind  to  the 
small  boy,  thrown  into  the  heart  of  it. 

In  the  writing  of  "  Oliver  Twist "  there  is  no 
doubt  that  here  again  Dickens  had  himself  in  mind, 
in  drawing  the  delicate,  shrinking  character  of  this 
boy  from  the  workhouse.  H  loneliness,  and  weari- 
ness, and  uncongenial  companions  were  signs  o£ 
resemblance,  then  Oliver  Twist  bore  a  strong  like- 
ness to  Charles  Dickens,  who  trudged  daily  to  and 
from  the  blacking-warehouse.  But  the  boy  in  the 
book  stands  forth  almost  alone  from  the  grue- 
some shadows  of  the  story.  We  must  not  forget, 
however,  that  before  the  third  number  appeared 
the  author  had  been  sorely  tried,  by  his  first  real 
grief,   for  the  shadow  of  it  certainly  haunts  the 


Io6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

book,  and  while  it  may  be  acknowledged  as  the 
first  novel  of  Charles  Dickens,  it  is  decidedly  not 
the  book  to  be  recommended  as  a  first  reading  of 
Dickens  to  anyone  young  enough  to  have  that  fair 
open  field  of  good  reading  from  which  to  pick 
and  choose. 

The  young  man,  in  writing  his  first  novel,  dived 
into  some  of  the  darkest  haunts  of  the  London 
he  knew  so  well,  and  it  is  also  well-known  that 
every  scene  which  has  a  locality  for  a  background 
gains  truth  and  vividness  in  the  course  of  any 
story,  a  fact  which  only  enhances  the  gloominess 
and  horror  of  this  one.  Yet  it  accomplished  one 
lasting  good  —  it  awoke  the  honest  people  of  Lon- 
don to  the  knowledge  that  in  their  midst,  perhaps 
within  touch,  were  schools  of  training  for  the  pro- 
fessional thief.  It  opened  the  eyes  of  the  City 
guardians  and  made  them  doubly  watchful,  for  this 
eager  reformer  had  painted  such  a  true  and  ghastly 
picture  that  the  very  streets  where  such  things 
happened  rose  specter-like  out  of  the  night's  ob- 
scurity, and  the  slim  young  fellow,  with  his  earnest, 
handsome  face  and  keen  alert  eyes,  was  fast  be- 
coming that  rarest  of  all  birds  —  a  prophet  in  his 
own  country. 

It  seems  strange  that  he  should  have  written 
such  a  tale  at  a  time  when  for  him  life  was  full 
of  rosy  promises.  He  was  happily  married,  with 
a  bouncing  boy  to  enliven  the  house,  and  fast  win- 
ning for  himself  a  name  and  reputation.     Yet  per- 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  I07 

haps  it  was  this  very  contrast  between  his  own  cir- 
cumstances and  those  of  the  people  who  lived  in 
the  dark  haunts  which  gave  him  pause  and  armed 
his  pen. 

He  could  not  forget,  with  all  the  sordid  mem- 
ories of  his  boyhood  fresh  in  his  mind,  that  he,  too, 
had  been  of  the  people  who  worked  in  the  darkness, 
and  it  was  this  fact,  that  he  was  one  of  them,  which 
made  him  so  great  a  power.  He  never  tried  to 
push  himself  out  of  the  Middle  Class  to  w^hich  he 
belonged  from  first  to  last.  He  was  proud  of  it, 
and,  although  the  portals  of  the  great  world  swung 
wide  for  him,  and  he  entered  the  gardens  and 
plucked  the  flowers,  he  always  went  back  to  the 
people,  and  they  pressed  about  him  and  gave  him 
the  wealth  of  their  love  and  reverence. 

"  Oliver  Twist,"  written,  then,  from  the  depths 
of  a  strong  moral  purpose,  also  stands  apart  as  the 
author's  first  attempt  at  a  regular  novel  —  his  first 
attempt,  too,  to  trace  the  simple  history  of  a  sweet 
and  lovely  girl,  his  first  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
the  dead  girl  he  had  loved  so  well.  In  the  char- 
acter of  Rose  May  lie,  he  has  given  us  a  pen  picture 
of  Mary  Hogarth. 

"  The  younger  lady  was  in  the  lovely  bloom  and 
springtime  of  womanhood,  at  the  age  when,  if 
ever  angels  be  for  God's  purpose  enthroned  in 
mortal  forms,  they  may  be,  without  impiety,  sup- 
posed to  abide  in  such  as  hers.  She  was  not  past 
seventeen,  cast  in  so  slight  and  exquisite  a  mold, 


I08  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

so  mild  and  gentle,  so  pure  and  beautiful  that  earth 
seemed  not  her  element,  nor  its  rough  creatures 
her  fit  companions/' 

Sweet  Rose  Maylie!  The  memory  of  her  is  a 
beautiful,  tender  picture  drawn  from  life.  There 
is  another  girl  in  the  book,  but  she  haunts  the 
darkness  where  she  has  been  thrust  —  a  crimson 
flower  with  the  bloom  all  brushed  away.  Had  she 
been  given  a  chance  with  light  and  air,  who  knows 
what  poor  Nancy  might  have  become,  and  therein 
lay  the  wonderful  gift  of  Charles  Dickens.  He 
took  these  two  girls,  both  young  and  handsome, 
and  placed  almost  a  world  between  them.  For 
Rose,  the  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  flowers 
bloomed  in  quiet,  old-fashioned  garden  spots,  where 
to  be  good  seemed  to  be  a  natural  thing.  For 
Nancy,  there  was  darkness  always;  the  sun  at  best 
but  shivered  through  a  cloud,  and  the  light  of  a 
sputtering  candle  threw  grotesque  shadows  round 
her  dingy  haunts;  there  was  the  smell  of  evil  in 
the  air,  and  the  odor  clung  to  her  garments.  Poor 
child !  the  thick  fog  hid  the  garden  spots,  and  per- 
haps she  never  saw  a  flower.  Yet  she  saw  Rose, 
a  sweet,  pitiful,  sorrowful  Rose;  from  the  two 
ends  of  the  earth,  Dickens  brought  the  two  girls 
face  to  face;  they  clasped  hands  across  the  gulf, 
they  were  "  sisters  under  their  skin,"  as  Rudyard 
Kipling  says,  then  Rose  went  back  to  light  and 
life,  and  Nancy  to  darkness  and  death. 

There  is  where  Dickens  triumphs  —  he  does  not 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  109 

give  US  a  ^'  sensation,"  he  makes  us  ''  feel/'  and  out 
of  all  the  horror  of  "  Oliver  Twist  "  we  can  remem- 
ber the  meeting  of  these  two  girls,  and  the  fair 
promise  of  what  might  have  been  had  they  met 
again. 

Charles  Dickens  might  have  had  for  his  motto, 
'*  To  right  the  wrong,"  so  earnestly  did  his  efforts 
tend  towards  that  good  purpose.  From  the  first 
moment  that  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  took  shape  in 
his  brain,  the  little  blighted  Yorkshire  schoolboy 
rose  in  his  mind.  Before  writing  a  line  of  this 
story,  he  determined  to  see  for  himself  one  or  more 
of  these  Yorkshire  schools,  to  study  the  school- 
masters, whose  notorious  cruelty  was  even  then 
whispered  abroad.  They  were  veritable  Turks 
and  Tartars  —  these  schoolmasters.  Dickens  had 
some  suspicion  of  their  existence,  from  his  recol- 
lections of  Wellington  House  Academy,  but  he  was 
soon  to  learn  that  Mr.  Jones  —  the  head  of  that 
school  —  was  a  prince  of  courtliness  and  gentleness 
compared  with  the  ogres  of  Yorkshire  and  its 
neighborhood,  who  watched  over  and  regulated  the 
very  heart-beats  of  the  shivering  little  mortals  com- 
mitted to  their  care. 

It  was  by  this  time  an  open  secret  that  the  "  inim- 
itable Boz,"  as  his  admirers  called  him,  was  none 
other  than  Charles  Dickens,  but  Bo:2  was  always  a 
favorite  nickname  among  his  friends,  and  he  him- 
self was  very  partial  to  it. 

When  *'  Pickwick  "  had  reached  its  seventeenth 


no  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

number,  the  publishers  announced  that  they  had 
*'  completed  arrangements  with  Mr.  Dickens  for 
the  production  of  an  entirely  new  novel  to  be  pub- 
lished monthly,  at  the  same  price  and  in  the  same 
form  as  the  '  Pickwick  Papers/  " 

This  was  "  Nicholas  Nickleby,"  begun  on  his 
birthday  (February  7),  1838,  after  some  struggle, 
for  a  "  new  story "  was  always  a  serious  under- 
taking, and  was  always  approached  with  some  hesi- 
tation and  many  misgivings.  He  was  fresh  for 
the  task;  he  had  taken  a  pleasant  holiday  trip  into 
Flanders,  with  his  wife  and  Hablot  K.  Browne, 
later  he  passed  a  short  while  at  Broadstairs,  his 
favorite  seaside  town,  and  he  returned  to  London 
ready  to  storm  it  with  "  Nicholas  Nickleby." 

His  first  step  in  the  new  book  was  his  trip  into 
Yorkshire  accompanied  by  Hablot  K.  Browne,  who 
was  to  illustrate  the  story.  His  object  was  to  see 
the  schools  in  session  and  the  schoolmasters  at  their 
very  worst.  Education  was  greatly  neglected  in 
England  at  that  time;  anyone  was  free,  without 
preparation  or  examination,  to  become  a  school- 
master, and  the  man  who  was  generally  unfit  for 
anything  else  was  at  liberty  to  open  a  school  any- 
where. This  state  of  affairs  produced  the  most 
illiterate,  incapable  set  of  schoolmasters,  and  Dick- 
ens tells  us  in  the  preface  to  his  book  that  "  these 
Yorkshire  schoolmasters  were  the  lowest  and  most 
rotten  round  in  the  whole  ladder." 

The  two  young  men  reached  Yorkshire  in  the 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  Ill 

dead  of  winter,  in  the  midst  of  a  heavy  snow-storm. 
They  were  anxious  to  conceal  their  identity  as  they 
heard  that  even  the  worst  of  schoolmasters  were 
rather  shy  with  strangers.  However,  Dickens  was 
armed  with  some  letters  of  introduction  from  a 
friend  in  London  to  his  Yorkshire  connections, 
and  the  plan  was  to  consult  them  in  reference  to 
a  supposed  little  boy  "  who  had  been  left  with  a 
widowed  mother,  who  didn't  know  what  to  do 
with  him;  the  poor  lady  had  thought  ...  of 
sending  him  to  a  Yorkshire  school;  I  was  the  poor 
lady's  friend  traveling  that  way,  and  if  the  recipient 
of  the  letter  could  inform  me  of  a  school  in  his 
neighborhood,  the  writer  would  be  very  much 
obliged." 

This  little  '*  cooked  up "  story  was  the  screen 
behind  which  Dickens  hid  as  he  traveled  over  the 
Yorkshire  country,  and  the  recipient  of  one  letter 
was  a  jovial,  ruddy,  broad-faced  man,  "  who  spoke 
the  true  Yorkshire  English,"  just  as  John  Browdie 
did  in  "  Nicholas  Nickleby."  In  speaking  of  him, 
Dickens  says  in  his  preface: 

*'  I  went  to  several  places  in  that  part  of  the 
country  where  I  understood  these  schools  to  be 
most  plentifully  sprinkled,  and  had  no  occasion  to 
deliver  a  letter  until  I  came  to  a  certain  town  which 
shall  be  nameless.  The  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  was  not  at  home;  but  he  came  down  at 
night  through  the  snow,  to  the  inn  where  I  was 
staying.     It  was  after  dinner,  and  he  needed  little 


112  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

persuasion  to  sit  down  by  the  fire  in  a  warm  cor- 
ner, and  take  his  share  of  the  wine  that  was  on 
the  table." 

They  talked  on  many  subjects  round  the  cheerful 
fire,  but  whenever  a  school  was  mentioned,  the 
guest  fell  silent  or  answered  in  monosyllables. 
Over  and  over  Dickens  tried  to  draw  him  out  upon 
the  subject;  each  time  he  sheered  off,  until  at  length, 
on  leaving,  he  broke  out  in  his  strong  Yorkshire 
dialect,  strongly  advising  the  ^'  widow  lady "  not 
to  send  her  little  boy  to  a  Yorkshire  schoolmaster 
while  there  was  a  horse  to  hold  in  the  London 
streets,  or  a  gutter  to  sleep  in. 

This  was  just  the  testimony  that  Dickens  needed 
to  present  his  case;  he  saw  the  schools  soon  after; 
then  he  wrote  his  story,  a  plea  for  the  "  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  minds  that  have  been  deformed 
forever  by  the  incapable  pettifoggers  who  have 
pretended  to  form  them ! " 

This  great  evil  of  the  cheap  school  was  of  course 
the  root  of  "  Nicholas  Nickleby,"  and  the  young 
author  was  gratified  to  see  how,  during  the  prog- 
ress of  the  story,  this  awful  blot  upon  England's 
humanity  had  impressed  the  reading  public.  But 
the  book  holds  much  more  besides.  It  is  built  upon 
a  plot  —  all  of  Dickens's  novels  are  —  and  holds 
the  interest  straight  through,  from  the  time  we 
meet  the  simple,  unworldly  Mj'S.  Nickleby  and  her 
two  fine  young  children  —  the  high-spirited  Nich- 
olas and  his  pretty  sister  Kate  —  until  the  wedding 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  II3 

bells  at  the  very  end,  where  everybody  gets  mar- 
ried, just  as  they  always  did  in  the  good  old  com- 
edies. 

By  all  means  we  must  take  ''  Nicholas  Nickleby  " 
as  our  first  reading  of  Dickens.  To  begin  with, 
there  is  youth  in  it.  Everybody  is  young,  except 
the  old  world-worn  villains  who  are  never  young, 
no  matter  what  their  age.  Nicholas  is  young  and 
a  fighter  —  we  are  glad  his  shoulders  are  broad 
and  his  arm  strong,  and  that  he  has  a  fearless 
tongue,  which  he  knows  when  and  how  to  use, 
especially  in  Dotheboys  Hall,  when  he  entered  the 
amiable  family  of  S queers. 

All  readers  of  Dickens  know  that  he  w^as  fond 
of  producing  w^hat  in  literature  are  known  as 
"  types,"  but  that  is  the  wrong  start  to  take  in 
reading  Dickens's  books.  Enjoy  them  first;  there 
is  always  a  w^holesome  story,  and  if  accidentally 
we  come  across  photographs  of  people  we  know, 
why,  so  much  the  more  will  be  our  enjoyment.  A 
second  reading  will  probably  show  us  something 
new  —  something  which  we  never  noticed  before, 
and  by  the  time  w-e  reach  a  third  reading,  we  may 
be  as  intimate  with  all  the  characters  as  Dickens 
was  himself  when  he  popped  them  in  between  the 
covers,  and  still  leave  something  to  be  discovered 
if  w^e  care  to  read  them  a  fourth  time. 

Who  ever  heard  of  a  school  called  Dotheboys 
Hall!  Yet  we  see  how  aptly  the  name  was  chosen 
(Do  the  boys),    for  the  poor  little   fellows   were 


114  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

certainly  "  done  up  "  and  "  done  for  "  under  the 
hospitable  roof  of  Mr.  Squeers. 

Three  people  in  this  book  were  drawn  from  the 
heart  of  Dickens's  own  family.  Mrs.  Nickleby 
was  a  sort  of  caricature  of  his  mother.  Kate 
Nickleby  was  a  tribute  to  his  favorite  sister, 
Fanny,  and  Nicholas  himself  was  supposed  to 
possess  the  outward  form  of  Henry  Burnett, 
Fanny's  husband,  though  it  is  also  more  than 
probable  that  Nicholas,  as  we  find  him  in  the 
story,  from  nineteen  to  twenty-five,  was  in  some 
manner  his  own  biographical  sketch  at  that 
period,  for  he  had  many  of  the  same  aspirations 
and  ambitions. 

As  to  his  mother's  likeness  to  Mrs,  Nickleby, 
it  must  have  been,  as  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald  tells 
us,  "  simply  the  exaggeration  of  some  slight  pecul- 
iarities," for  while  Mrs.  Dickens  was  considered 
by  all  her  friends  to  possess  her  fair  share  of  com- 
mon-sense, with  plenty  of  wit  and  a  keen  sense  of 
humor,  poor  Mrs.  Nickleby  did  not  enjoy  that  dis- 
tinction. But  Dickens  admits  the  resemblance,  for 
he  tells  us: 

''  Mrs.  Nickleby  herself,  sitting  bodily  before  me 
in  a  solid  chair,  once  asked  me  if  I  really  believed 
there  was  such  a  woman !  " 

This  was  rather  hard  on  a  really  sensible  woman 
like  Mrs.  Dickens,  for  Mrs.  Nickleby  is  generally 
conceded  to  be  one  of  the  biggest  fools  in  fiction. 
He  has  given  us,  too,  in  this  most  interesting  book, 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  II5 

some  specimens  of  typical  English  girls,  which  are 
as  varied  as  they  are  delightful. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning,  there  is  Kate  herself, 
only  seventeen  when  we  meet  her  first,  a  charming, 
beautiful,  spirited  girl,  at  an  age  which  to  Dickens 
was  always  beautiful,  because  Mary  Hogarth  had 
lived  those  years  and  had  died  in  their  fullness,  and 
when  he  wrote  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  the  grief  was 
still  fresh  in  his  heart.  We  meet  Kate  Nickleby 
every  day  among  the  girls  we  know,  simple  and 
sincere,  beautiful  and  virtuous,  but  in  these  twen- 
tieth-century days  w^e  don't  grow  up  so  quickly. 
Our  girls  are  not  thrust  into  society  before  they 
pull  off  their  pinafores,  but  alas!  when  poor  Kate 
Nickleby  lengthened  her  skirts,  she  stepped  right 
into  young  ladyhood,  and  found  the  world  very 
wicked  and  scheming  —  at  least  her  world,  which 
encompassed  the  burly  form  of  that  "  baddest " 
of  bad  uncles.  There  never  was  such  a  villain  on 
land  or  sea  (except  possibly  all  the  others  Dickens 
has  written  about)  as  Ralph  Nickleby. 

Quite  another  type  of  girl  was  Miss  Fanny 
S queers,  and  from  the  earliest  times  her  portraits 
have  taxed  the  ingenuity  of  every  one  of  Dickens's 
illustrators.  She  was  decidedly  not  a  charming 
girl ;  she  had  a  dumpy  figure,  a  loud  voice,  a  "  wall- 
eye," and  a  bad  temper,  and,  being  a  schoolmaster's 
daughter  —  especially  a  Yorkshire  schoolmaster's 
daughter  —  her  English  was  so  very  bad  it  could 
not  be  improved. 


Il6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Poor  Nicholas  had  the  fortune  or  misfortune  to 
be  very  good-looking,  a  fact  which  the  Httle 
''  slavey  "  belonging  to  the  establishment  confided 
to  Miss  Fanny  Squeers,  who  decided  to  see  for 
herself,  and  every  schoolgirl  knows  by  heart  that 
absurd  scene  where  the  valiant  Fanny,  armed  with 
a  quill  pen,  stormed  Nicholas  in  the  school-room 
during  her  father's  absence. 

*' *  I  beg  your  pardon,'  faltered  Miss  Squeers, 
'  I  thought  my  father  was  —  or  might  be  —  dear 
me,  how  very  awkward ! ' 

"  *  Mr.  Squeers  is  out,'  said  Nicholas,  by  no 
means  overcome  by  the  apparition,  unexpected 
though  it  was. 

"  '  Do  you  know  how  long  he  will  be,  sir?  '  asked 
Miss  Squeers  with  bashful  hesitation. 

"  *  He  said  about  an  hour,'  replied  Nicholas  — 
politely,  of  course,  but  without  any  indication  of 
being  stricken  to  the  heart  by  Miss  Squeers's 
charms. 

"  '  I  never  knew  anything  happen  so  cross,'  ex- 
claimed the  young  lady.  *  Thank  you !  I  am  very 
sorry  I  intruded,  I  am  sure.  If  I  hadn't  thought 
my  father  was  here,  I  wouldn't  upon  any  account 
have  —  it  is  very  provoking  —  must  look  so 
very  strange,'  murmured  Miss  Squeers,  blushing 
once  more,  and  glancing  from  the  pen  in  her  hand, 
to  Nicholas  at  his  desk,  and  back  again. 

"  *  If  that  is  all  you  want,'  said  Nicholas,  point- 
ing to  the   pen  and   smiling  in   spite  of  himself. 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  II7 

at  the  affected  embarrassment  of  the  schoolmaster's 
daughter,  '  perhaps  I  can  supply  his  place.'  " 

Of  course  this  was  what  the  adorable  Fanny 
wished,  and  she  sidled  and  bridled  as  she  yielded 
up  the  pen.  Steel  pens  were  not  used  in  those  days, 
the  usual  implement  for  writing  was  a  goose-quill, 
and  the  nib  was  the  point  of  the  hollow  stem,  which 
had  to  be  cut  according  to  the  taste  of  the  wTiter. 

"*  Shall  it  be  a  hard  or  a  soft  nib?'  inquired 
Nicholas,  smiling  to  prevent  himself  from  laughing 
outright. 

" '  He  has  a  beautiful  smile,'  thought  Miss 
Squeers. 

"  *  Which  did  you  say  ?  '  asked  Nicholas. 

"  *  Dear  me !  I  was  thinking  of  something  else 
for  the  moment,  I  declare,'  replied  Miss  Squeers. 
*  Oh!  as  soft  as  possible,  if  you  please,'  with  which 
words  Miss  Squeers  sighed.  It  might  be,  to  give 
Nicholas  to  understand  that  her  heart  was  soft, 
and  that  the  pen  was  wanted  to  match." 

This  ridiculous  scene  took  place  in  the  school- 
room over  which  Nicholas  was  presiding,  and  five- 
and-twenty  wretched,  shivering  boys  were  opening 
wide  their  five-and-twenty  pairs  of  eyes,  in  solemn 
wonder.  Then  Nicholas  dropped  the  pen  and 
stooped  to  get  it,  Miss  Squeers  stooped,  too,  and 
their  heads  bumped  smartly. 

"Ha-ha-ha!"  laughed  the  little  boys,   and  the 

school-room  echoed  with  the  unwonted  sound. 

Poor  little  lads!     Their  sense  of  humor  burst 
9 


Il8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  bonds,  though  they  knew  they  would  be  flogged' 
for  it  on  the  morrow. 

Now  Miss  Squeers's  friend  'Tilda  was  a  clean- 
cut  type  of  a  pretty,  romping,  mischievous,  good- 
hearted  English  country-girl.  How  well  Dickens 
knew  his  girls  and  drew  them!  He  had  met  them 
often  in  Chatham  and  Rochester,  and  when  'Tilda 
became  Mrs.  John  Browdie,  which  she  did  without 
much  delay,  she  made  just  the  lovable,  comfortable, 
pretty,  smiling,  helpful  little  matron,  who  always 
put  the  kettle  on  at  the  right  moment,  and  knew 
how  to  make  a  happy  home  for  a  good  husband. 

The  next  girls  Nicholas  met  on  his  travels  (it 
was  not  long  before  he  had  broken  a  cane  over  the 
head  of  the  wretched  Squeers,  and  had  run  away 
with  poor  Smike  from  Dotheboys  Hall)  were  the 
Kenwigses,  four  little  girls  like  four  little  steps, 
from  Morleena  down,  all  precisely  alike,  with  their 
thin  little  legs  and  arms,  and  pig-tail  plaits  of  flaxen 
hair  sticking  out  from  their  thin  little  shoulders. 
The  little  Kenwigses  seldom  spoke;  they  sat  about 
stiflly  on  their  stiff  little  chairs,  and  Morleena  some- 
times said  "Yes,  Ma"  or  "No,  Ma"  when  fat 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  prodded  her,  but  they  were  there, 
nevertheless,  very  much  alive,  in  spite  of  their 
speechlessness,  and  Nicholas  picked  up  a  few  stray 
shillings  by  teaching  them  French. 

Morleena  semed  to  be  the  only  one  of  the  four 
litle  Kenwigs  sisters  who  possessed  a  name,  the 
other  little  "  pig-tailed "  girls  played  chorus,  and 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  1 19 

there  was  a  baby-boy  christened  something  or  other 
after  his  uncle  Lillyvickj  the  great  man  of  the  fam- 
ily. Indeed,  this  small  and  insignificant  household, 
with  its  small  and  insignificant  hopes  and  ambitions, 
stands  out  very  sharply  in  the  novel,  though  at  first 
sight  they  appear  but  stepping-stones  to  Nicholas's 
rise  to  fortune.  Uncle  Lillyvick,  being  a  water 
tax  collector,  was  a  personage  among  his  admiring 
relatives,  who  hoped  in  the  future  to  inherit  his 
savings  —  and  the  Kenwigs  children  were  sup- 
posed to  dote  upon  him. 

"  *  Morleena  Kenwigs,'  cried  her  mother,  in  a 
torrent  of  affection,  *  go  down  upon  your  knees 
to  your  dear  uncle,  and  beg  him  to  love  you  all  his 
life  through,  for  he's  more  a  angel  than  a  man, 
and  I've  always  said  so.'  " 

And  Morleena  J  having  the  family  welfare  at 
heart,  did  as  her  mother  told  her,  and  did  much 
more  in  her  quiet  speechless  way,  all  the  little  Ken- 
wigses  following  suit,  except  Baby  Kenwigs,  who 
w^as  too  young  to  follow  anything. 

On  the  very  highest  authority  we  have  it  that 
Miss  Morleena,  aged  ten,  was  a  wonderful  young 
woman;  her  mother  said  so,  and  that  was  enough. 
At  any  rate,  we  know  that  the  little  Kenwigses  were 
real  flesh  and  blood  little  girls,  far  more  of  flesh 
and  blood  than  poor  Smike,  who  creeps  like  a 
shadow  through  the  stor}-. 

As  Nicholas  proceeds  from  adventure  to  adven- 
ture, we  cannot  help  seeing  how  the  life  of  the 


120  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

real  Charles  Dickens  becomes  interwoven  with  the 
life  of  his  hero.  For  instance,  we  all  know  that 
Dickens's*  earliest  ambitions  pointed  towards  the 
stage  at  that  time,  and,  had  the  scales  leaned  ever 
so  slightly  in  that  direction,  he  would  gladly  have 
followed  that  fascinating  profession,  and  no  doubt 
with  some  distinction.  So  when  Nicholas  chanced 
to  meet  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  it  is  small  wonder 
that  he  jumped  at  the  offer  of  that  gentleman,  and 
soon  found  himself  treading  the  boards  with  much 
more  ease  and  comfort  than  when  teaching  at  five 
pounds  a  year,  in  Mr.  Squeers^s  select  establishment. 
And  here  we  come  across  another  girl,  in  the  per- 
son of  Miss  Ninette  Crummies,  better  known  as 
the  Infant  Phenomenon. 

There  was  never  a  child  like  that  child,  and  the 
things  she  could  not  do  while  twirling  on  her  toes, 
were  certainly  not  worth  doing  at  all  by  anybody. 
In  fact,  all  the  Crummles's  were  celebrated  in  some 
theatrical  way,  even  the  pony,  behind  which  Mr. 
Crummies  drove  Nicholas  and  Smike  to  Ports- 
mouth, where  they  were  to  make  their  professional 
debut. 

"  *  Many  and  many  is  the  circuit  this  pony  has 
gone,'  said  Mr.  Crummies,  flicking  him  skillfully 
on  the  eyelid  for  old  acquaintance  sake.  *  He  is 
quite  one  of  us.     His  mother  was  on  the  stage.' 

"  *  Was  she?'  rejoined  Nicholas. 

*'  *  She  ate  apple-pie  at  a  circus  for  upward  of 
fourteen  years,'   said  the  manager,   *  fired  pistols, 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  121 

and  went  to  bed  in  a  night-cap,  in  short,  took  the 
low  comedy  entirely.     His  father  was  a  dancer.' 

"  *  Was  he  at  all  distinguished  ? ' 

"  *  Not  very,'  said  the  manager.  *  He  was  rather 
a  low  sort  of  pony.  The  fact  is,  he  had  been  orig- 
inally jobbed  out  by  the  day,  and  he  never  quite 
got  over  his  old  habits.  He  was  clever  in  melo- 
drama, too,  but  too  broad  —  too  broad.  When 
the  mother  died,  he  took  the  port-wine  business.' 

"  *  The  port-wine  business ! '  cried  Nicholas. 

"  *  Drinking  port-wine  with  the  clown,'  said  the 
manager ;  '  but  he  was  greedy,  and  one  night  bit 
off  the  bowl  of  the  glass  and  choked  himself,  so 
his  vulgarity  was  the  death  of  him  at  last.'  " 

With  such  talent  among  even  the  horses,  it  was 
but  natural  that  the  Infant  Phenomenon  should  be 
a  marvel,  and  the  fact  that  she  had  stayed  ten  years 
of  age  for  five  years  at  least  only  made  her  prowess 
the  more  remarkable. 

Nicholas  and  Smike,  tired  and  dispirited  after 
their  long  runaway  tramp,  were  glad  to  find  a 
refuge  in  this  wonderful  dramatic  circle,  and  no 
doubt  Dickens  related  many  of  his  own  experiences 
and  described  many  of  his  own  associates  among 
the  queer  characters  he  encountered  behind  the 
scenes. 

Madeline  Bray,  the  only  other  girl  in  the  story, 
is  almost  too  shadowy  to  be  a  real  girl.  She  is 
just  another  step  in  Nicholas  Nickleby's  career  — 
the  girl  he  loved  —  but,  in  spite  of  her  sweetness 


122  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  her  connection  with  the  very  dramatic  plot, 
she  fails  to  become  a  living  character.  Kate,  with 
her  steadfast  truth,  her  spirit,  and,  above  all,  her 
likeness  to  her  brother,  is  much  more  convincing. 

The  novel  is  full  of  portraits  taken  from  life,  as 
well  as  of  ideal  pictures  painted  by  the  master  hand 
of  Dickens  himself,  so  true  to  life  that  they  seem 
like  life  itself.  Indeed,  as  Charles  Dickens  and  his 
books  acquired  more  and  more  of  a  hold  upon  his 
readers,  it  became  the  fashion  to  believe  that  Dick- 
ens's characters  were  quite  out  of  the  ordinary. 
It  was  customary  to  say :  "  Oh,  he  is  odd  —  he 
reminds  me  of  one  of  Dickens's  characters." 

Now,  this  was  rather  hard  upon  a  great  writer 
like  Dickens,  who  had  the  rare  gift  of  painting 
life  exactly  as  he  found  it.  The  Cheeryhle  Broth- 
ers, Tim  Linkinwater,  Miss  La  Creevy,  even  the 
crazy  old  gentleman  who  lived  next  door  to  Mrs. 
Nicklehy,  all  stand  equally  life-like  before  us.  Yet 
from  among  them  the  Cheeryhle  Brothers  are  the 
only  portraits  from  life. 

The  writing  of  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  took  from 
April,  1838,  until  October,  1839,  for,  as  the  story 
appeared  in  serial  form,  twenty  numbers  were  the 
usual  limit.  Dickens,  young  as  he  was,  was  some- 
what a  creature  of  habit  in  the  writing  of  his  books ; 
because  he  chanced  to  be  out  of  town  when  the 
first  installment  of  "  Pickwick  "  appeared,  he  con- 
trived also  to  be  absent  when  the  first  installment 
of    "  Nickleby "    was    published.     He    summoned 


THE  FIRST  NOVELS.  123 

Forster,  his  trusted  friend,  on  a  Saturday  night, 
and  at  one  o'clock  Sunday  morning  the  two  men 
went  for  a  horseback  ride,  the  excited  young  author 
carrying  the  glad  news  that  on  the  first  day  fifty 
thousand  copies  of  that  first  number  had  been  sold 
to  the  eager  reading  public. 

So  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  emerged  into  its  wait- 
ing niche,  amid  the  loud  tooting  of  the  trumpet  of 
fame.  Its  wholesomeness,  its  truthfulness,  and 
above  all,  its  dramatic  force,  attracted  readers 
young  and  old. 

One  small  boy  wrote  to  Dickens  concerning  the 
rewards  and  punishments  to  be  meted  out  in  the 
course  of  the  story,  and  in  a  very  funny  letter  Dick- 
ens replied  to  Master  Hastings  Hughes,  stating  that 
his  many  suggestions  should  be  followed  to  the 
letter  if  possible;  and  it  is  highly  probable,  that  in 
the  course  of  his  novels,  which  generally  appeared 
serially,  many  similar  suggestions  guided  his  imagi- 
nation. Many  Yorkshire  schoolmasters  claimed 
relationship  to  Squeers;  but,  oddly  enough,  that 
most  unpleasant  character  was  the  outcome  of  the 
shameful  conditions  of  the  cheap  schools,  and  not 
a  photograph  of  any  special  person. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that,  little  by  little,  these  cheap 
schools  disappeared,  the  cruel  Yorkshire  school- 
master slunk  away  into  oblivion,  while  *^  Nicholas 
Nickleby  "  reared  its  proud  crest  as  a  monument 
to  the  downfall  of  all  the  Squeerses  in  the  world. 

There  is  one  great  chapter  of  retribution  written 


124  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

especially,  we  suppose,  for  Master  Hastings 
Hughes,  describing  a  wild  scene  of  insurrection 
at  Dotheboys  Hall,  where  Mrs.  S queers,  upon  her 
knees,  with  pinioned  arms,  is  forced  to  drink  gulps 
of  her  own  nauseous  treacle,  and  Master  Wackford 
S queers  is  held  head  down  in  a  sticky  basin  of  this 
delightful  beverage. 

The  boyish  soul  of  Dickens  delighted  in  this 
scene  of  riot,  and  it  was  this  same  youthful  spirit 
in  him  which  got  into  his  books  and  made  them 
live.  Here  he  was  —  only  twenty-six  —  on  the 
threshold  of  his  life,  and  the  pinnacle  of  his  great- 
ness. The  youth  in  him,  crushed  and  hidden  in 
boyhood,  bubbled  over  now,  stirred  into  quicker 
life  by  the  man's  experience.  At  an  age  when  most 
men  begin,  he  had  achieved,  and  there  was  more, 
much  more,  to  come. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MASTER    HUMPHREY'S    FIRST    TALE. 


|HEN  an  author  becomes  enormously  pop- 
ular, as  Charles  Dickens  did  in  his  early 
youth,  the  real  man  is  apt  to  be  over- 
looked in  the  public  interest  which  clings 
about  him.  But  this  young  man  was  tasting  all 
the  sweets  in  life.  Just  before  beginning  "  Nich- 
olas Nickleby "  in  March,  1838,  his  second  child 
was  born,  a  little  girl  whom  he  called  Mary,  better 
known  to  the  world  who  knew  Dickens,  as  Mamie, 
and  named,  of  course,  after  that  other  Mary,  whose 
memory  was  always  fresh.  Great  events  —  such 
as  the  coming  of  a  new  daughter  or  the  beginning 
of  a  new  book  —  were  always  celebrated  by  a  long, 
hard  horseback  ride,  and  on  the  occasion  of  Mamie's 
birth,  the  two  inseparables,  Forster  and  Dickens, 
rode  fifteen  miles  out  on  the  Great  North  Road, 
dined  at  the  "  Red  Lion  "  in  Barnet,  and  brought 
their  much-enduring  horses  limping  home. 

So  there  was  a  new  daughter  a  month  before 
the  opening  chapter  of  "  Nickleby/*  and  twenty- 
two  months  later,  in  October,  1839,  the  month  after 
its  completion,  little  Kate  Dickens  came  to  join 
her  sister.     Charles,  Mary,  and  Kate,  three  names 

125 


126  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

so  happily  associated  with  his  own  life,  were  the 
names  of  his  children,  and  in  the  family  history 
these  three  stand  prominently  forth  from  among 
the  ten  children  who  came  to  him  in  the  course 
of  the  years. 

In  November,  1838,  when  "Nickleby"  was  in 
its  early  installments,  one  Edward  Stirling  chopped 
it  up  to  suit  his  own  purposes,  and,  making  a  farce 
out  of  it,  produced  it  with  a  cast  of  clever  actors 
at  the  Adelphi  Theater.  The  author  even  had  the 
impertinence  to  dedicate  the  play  to  Dickens,  and 
we  are  informed  on  good  authority  that  Dickens 
saw  it  and  was  much  pleased  with  the  acting.  The 
same  thing  was  done  with  "  Oliver  Twist,"  and  yet 
the  author  could  do  nothing  to  protect  himself 
under  the  then  existing  copyright  laws  in  England, 
and  anyone  could  "  adapt  "  who  chanced  to  be  clever 
at  that  sort  of  stealing. 

In  March,  1839,  Dickens  established  his  mother 
and  father  in  a  pretty  cottage  at  Alphingham,  a 
mile  from  Exeter,  and  took  much  boyish  delight 
in  beautifying  and  furnishing  it.  The  name  of  the 
little  home  was  Mile-End  Cottage — "and  if  they 
are  not  pleased  with  it,  I  shall  be  grievously  disap- 
pointed," he  said  to  one  of  his  friends.  To  another 
he  wrote: 

"  The  house  is  on  the  high-road  to  Plymouth, 
and  though  in  the  very  heart  of  Devonshire,  there 
is  as  much  long  stage  and  posting  life  as  you  would 
find    in    Piccadilly.     The    situation    is    charming. 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.         127 

Meadows  in  front,  an  orchard  running  parallel  to 
the  garden  hedge,  richly  wooded  hills  closing  in 
the  prospect  behind,  and  away  to  the  left,  before  a 
splendid  view  of  the  hill  on  which  Exeter  is  sit-  • 
uated,  the  Cathedral  towers  rising  up  into  the  sky 
in  the  most  picturesque  manner  possible.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  so  cheerful  and  pleasant  a  spot." 

And  this  is  the  place  where  Nicholas  Nickleby 
settled  his  mother  and  Kate,  described  in  Mrs. 
Nickleby s  graphic  style  as  "the  beautiful  little 
thatched  white  house,  one  storey  high,  covered  all 
over  with  ivy  and  creeping  plants,  with  an  exquisite 
little  porch  with  twining  honeysuckles  and  all  sorts 
of  things." 

The  house  where  the  greater  part  of  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby"  was  written,  No.  48  Doughty  Street, 
is  the  only  London  home  of  the  novelist  which 
remains  unchanged  in  appearance  through  the  years. 
Some  few  chapters,  however,  were  written  at  Elm 
Cottage,  Twickenham,  and  in  November,  1839, 
two  months  after  the  completion  of  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby,"  he  moved  to  No.  i  Devonshire  Terrace, 
Regent's  Park,  which  he  occupied  until  185 1,  and 
where  some  of  the  happiest  years  of  his  life  were 
spent. 

The  habit  of  writing  serial  stories  had  taken  a 
firm  hold  upon  Dickens.  They  seemed  to  please 
his  readers  and  keep  up  their  interest.  Having 
resigned  the  editorship  of  Bentley's  Miscellany 
sometime  after  the  publication  of  ''  Oliver  Twist," 


128  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

that  active,  restless  mind  of  his  was  quick  to  seize 
on  a  new  idea,  and  the  character  of  a  certain  Master 
Humphrey  began  to  take  shape  and  color  in  his 
vivid  imagination. 

The  real  Master  Humphrey  was  a  worthy  clock- 
maker  at  Barnard  Castle,  Durham,  who,  when  about 
sixteen  years  of  age,  fashioned  the  timepiece  which 
Dickens  afterwards  made  famous  as  "  Master 
Humphrey's  Clock."  When  he  was  traveling 
among  the  Yorkshire  schools,  he  saw  this  clock 
standing  just  within  the  doorway  of  Humphrey's 
little  shop,  for  Barnard  Castle  lay  upon  his  route, 
and  the  quaint  character  and  still  quainter  clock 
roused  his  interest.  The  idea  popped  into  his  head 
to  wind  up  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  and  give  the 
name  to  a  new  periodical  to  be  issued  weekly,  so 
the  stories  which  he  proposed  to  write  in  future 
could  come  closer  and  more  frequently  to  his 
readers. 

This  Master  Humphrey  was  supposed  to  sit 
always  beside  his  Clock  in  the  chimney-corner,  a 
serene,  quiet,  patient  old  man,  slightly  deformed, 
but  sweet-natured  through  it  all,  and  full  of  mem- 
ories from  childhood  to  old  age,  such  as  old  men 
have.  He  was  not  friendless,  but  he  was  some- 
what lonely,  and  from  his  crippled  childhood  he  had 
been  wont  to  keep  a  little  apart  from  others.  As 
a  boy  he  had  felt  very  keenly  the  difference  between 
himself  and  other  children.  He  says  of  himself :  "  I 
used  frequently  to  dream  of  it,  and  now  my  heart 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.         129 

aches  for  that  child  as  if  I  had  never  been  he,  when 
I  think  how  often  he  awoke  from  some  fairy 
change  to  his  old  form,  and  sobbed  himself  to  sleep 
again." 

Dickens  always  had  a  great  fondness  for  little 
lame  boys,  his  own  nephew  —  his  sister  Fanny's 
son  —  was  a  delicate  little  cripple,  a  gentle,  patient 
child,  who  served  as  a  model  for  many  beautiful 
portraits,  notably  Paul  Domhey  and  Tiny  Tim. 

Master  Humphrey  goes  on  to  explain  that  all 
his  life  he  had  felt  a  strange  fondness  for  the  old 
furniture  in  his  room;  he  regarded  each  piece  as 
an  old  friend,  and  no  money  could  express  its  value 
to  him.     He  tells  us : 

"  Chief  and  first  among  all  these  is  my  Clock  — 
my  old,  cheerful,  companionable  Clock.  How  can 
I  ever  convey  to  others  an  idea  of  the  comfort  and 
consolation  that  this  old  Clock  has  been  for  years 
to  me! 

"  It  is  associated  with  my  earliest  recollections. 
It  stood  upon  the  staircase  at  home  nigh  sixty  years 
ago.  I  like  it  for  that,  but  it  is  not  on  that  account, 
nor  because  it  is  a  quaint  old  thing,  in  a  huge  oaken 
case  curiously  and  richly  carved,  that  I  prize  it  as 
I  do;  I  incline  to  it  as  if  it  were  alive  and  could 
vmder stand  and  give  me  back  the  love  I  bear  it." 

What  old  Master  Humphrey  liked  about  his 
Clock  was  its  voice,  its  cheerful  way  of  ticking  the 
minutes  and  seconds,  its  clear,  bell-like  ringing  of 
the  hour.     It  was  almost  human,  and  was  known 


I30  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

throughout  the  little  village  where  the  old  man  lived 
as  "  Master  Humphrey's  Clock." 

Now  in  the  dark  closet  where  the  pendulum 
swung,  were  piles  of  dusty  papers,  closely  written 
manuscripts  placed  there  from  time  to  time  by 
Master  Humphrey  and  the  deaf  gentleman,  his  con- 
stant associate,  and  these  were  given  to  the  world 
of  readers,  once  a  week,  through  the  mouth  of 
Master  Humphrey  himself.  It  was  a  quaint,  fan- 
tastic idea,  and  there  was  much  of  good  reading  in 
the  few  numbers  which  were  published,  but  the 
public  felt  defrauded;  there  was  no  story  from 
the  pen  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  the  circulation  of 
the  new  weekly  dwindled  so  alarmingly  that  at  last 
Master  Humphrey  was  obliged  to  draw  a  thicker 
manuscript  from  the  pendulum  closet,  and,  as  he 
carefully  unrolled  it,  smoothing  a  page  or  two  here 
and  there,  something  dropped  from  between  the 
leaves.  It  was  the  pictured  face  of  a  child,  fair 
and  innocent,  with  clustering  curls  and  deep  blue, 
almost  unearthly  eyes.  This  was  little  Nellie 
Trent,  whose  Grandfather  kept  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop,  which  gave  the  story  its  name,  and  this  was 
Dickens's  promise  fulfilled,  to  his  readers,  who 
ceased  clamoring  —  like  Oliver  Twist  —  for  more, 
the  minute  he  gave  them  what  they  wanted.  And 
this  is  also  Dickens's  first  tribute  to  little  girlhood. 
Around  this  small,  delicate  young  creature,  great 
events  darted  and  whirled  like  heavy  clouds.  With 
none  to  think  for  her,  none  to  care  for  her  but  a 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  13I 

half -crazed  old  man,  the  child  moved  through  the 
story  like  a  fairy. 

Many  argue  that  the  character  of  Little  Nell  is 
forced  and  unnatural,  that  no  little  girls  ever  ex- 
isted who  were  quite  as  perfect  as  Little  Nell,  but, 
if  they  will  consider,  they  may  change  their  minds. 
A  ray  of  light  burns  with  wonderful  brilliance 
against  a  background  of  pitchy  darkness,  so  the 
white  soul  of  this  child,  which  was  as  the  white 
soul  of  many  another  child,  looked  all  the  whiter 
for  the  dense  shadows  of  sin  from  which  it  emerged. 
Dickens  drew  this  child  with  the  hand  of  love, 
forging  another  link  to  the  memory  of  Mary 
Hogarth.  She  was  to  be  the  one  pure  creature  in 
the  turmoil  and  struggle  of  the  life  about  her,  and 
the  fate  which  had  snatched  their  home  from  them 
certainly  spread  a  queer  feast  for  the  old  man  and 
the  little  girl,  as  they  wandered  through  villages 
and  rested  at  wayside  inns,  sleeping  often  in  the 
open  air  under  the  stars.  On  they  plodded,  foot- 
sore and  weary,  from  day  to  day,  anxious  only  to 
leave  London  far  away,  not  caring  where  their  steps 
might  lead  them  —  the  feeble  old  man  and  the 
desperate  child  who  was  eager  not  only  to  save 
him  from  his  creditors,  but  to  save  him  from  him- 
self. It  is  indeed  no  wonder  that  Little  Nell's 
small  body  could  not  keep  pace  with  her  indomitable 
courage. 

We  meet  her  first,  or  at  least  Master  Humphrey 
met  her  (since  he  is  supposed  to  tell  the  story)  in 


132  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  heart  of  the  big  City  of  London,  quite  alone 
at  night. 

''  I  turned  hastily  around,"  he  said,  "  and  found 
at  my  elbow  a  pretty  little  girl,  who  begged  to  be 
directed  to  a  certain  street  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, and  indeed  in  quite  another  quarter  of  the 
town. 

"  *  It  is  a  very  long  way  from  here/  said  I,  '  my 
child.' 

''  *  I  know  that,  sir,'  she  replied  timidly,  *  I  am 
afraid  it  is  a  very  long  way ;  for  I  came  from  there 
to-night.' 

"  '  Alone  ?  '  said  I  in  some  surprise. 

*' '  Oh,  yes,  I  don't  mind  that,  but  I  am  a  little 
frightened  now,  for  I  have  lost  my  road.' 

"  *  And  what  made  you  ask  it  of  me?  Suppose 
I  should  tell  you  wrong  ?  ' 

"  *  I  am  sure  you  will  not  do  that,'  said  the  little 
creature,  ^  you  are  such  a  very  old  gentleman  and 
walk  so  slow  yourself.' 

*'  I  cannot  describe  how  much  I  was  impressed 
by  this  appeal  and  the  energy  with  which  it  was 
made,  which  brought  a  tear  into  the  child's  clear  eye, 
and  made  her  slight  figure  tremble  as  she  looked 
up  into  my   face. 

"  '  Come,'  said  I,  '  I'll  take  you  there.'  " 

So  Little  Nell  —  for  it  was  she  —  put  her  hand 
confidingly  into  Master  Humphrey's,  and  so  the 
tale  began. 

The  place  where  Little  Nell  lived  "  was  one  di 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  133 

those  receptacles  for  old  and  curious  things  which 
seem  to  crouch  in  odd  corners  of  the  town,  and  to 
hide  their  musty  treasures  from  the  public  eye  in 
jealousy  and  distrust."  And  here  she  was  content 
to  stay  with  an  old,  old  man  "  whose  haggard  aspect 
was  wonderfully  suited  to  the  place ;  he  might  have 
groped  among  old  churches  and  tombs,  and  deserted 
houses,  and  gathered  all  the  spoils  with  his  own 
hands.  There  was  nothing  in  the  whole  collection 
but  was  in  keeping  with  himself :  nothing  that  looked 
older  or  more  worn  than  he." 

We  cannot  marvel,  then,  that  in  such  strange 
surroundings  a  quaint  old-fashioned  child  should 
blossom,  a  child  with  the  mother-love  strong  within 
her,  to  be  lavished  on  the  childish  old  man;  that 
when  the  time  came  for  sacrifice,  she  should  be 
the  victim,  and  that  she  should  hold  '*  her  soli- 
tary way  among  a  crowd  of  wild,  grotesque  com- 
panions; the  only  pure,  fresh,  youthful  object  in 
the  throng." 

Everybody  w^ho  is  anybody  has  a  grandfather, 
or  has  had  one,  or  maybe  two,  and  grandfathers 
usually  are  fine  old  gentlemen,  who  are  given  to 
spoiling  and  petting  and  making  much  of  their 
grandchildren,  telling  them  stories  of  earlier  times, 
and  making  themselves  so  entertaining  and  agree- 
able that  an  hour  spent  by  them  in  the  nursery 
is  a  red-letter  hour,  indeed!  But  this  grandfather 
of  Little  Nell's  was  a  very  ghostly  old  fellow.  To 
begin  with,  he  never  answered  to  a  name  through- 
10 


134  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

out  the  book;  he  was  called  ''the  old  man"  or 
''  grandfather,"  as  the  case  might  be;  but  if  he  had 
a  name  he  shut  it  up  in  his  withered  old  breast,  and 
no  one  was  any  the  wiser.  Even  when  the  single 
gentleman,  his  brother,  went  to  hunt  for  him,  we 
are  still  in  the  dark,  for  nobody  knew  him  save  as 
the  single  gentleman,  until  he  added  to  his  title 
that  of  "the  old  man's  brother."  Little  Nell's 
mother  was  the  old  man's  daughter,  so  he  could 
not  lay  claim  to  the  name  of  Trent,  which 
was  hers,  hence  he  moved  close  by  the  child's 
side,  all  through  the  story  —  a  gaunt  and  nameless 
shadow. 

At  fourteen,  Nell  was  a  beautiful  little  creature, 
so  beautiful,  indeed,  that  men  began  to  look  at  her 
with  an  eye  to  marriage.  Her  own  brother,  a 
precious  young  villain,  had  promised  her  small 
hand  to  a  certain  Mr.  Richard  Suuiveller,  his  friend 
and  crony,  and  Daniel  Qiiilp,  the  dwarf  villain, 
whom  Dickens  had  painted  in  heavy  black  smudges, 
also  cast  his  eyes  upon  her  and  wondered  if  she 
would  not  make  a  very  pretty  second  Mrs.  Quilp, 
when  he  got  rid  of  Number  One. 

All  this  wicked  plotting  which  w^ent  on  about  her, 
even  while  it  could  not  mar  her  sweetness,  made 
her  grave  and  serious  beyond  her  years,  and  the 
absence  of  any  young  companions  made  her  turn 
to  her  grandfather  with  all  the  wealth  of  her  love, 
and,  when  circumstances  drove  them  from  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop  to  become  wanderers,   it  was  this 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  135 

wonderful  protecting  love  of  hers  which  shielded 
him  and  sheltered  him  along  their  way. 

We  must  not  forget  all  this  when  we  read  about 
Little  Nell  and  complain  that  she  is  too  good  for 
this  earth.  All  her  life  she  had  taken  care  of  her 
grandfather.  She  it  was  who  planned  their  flight; 
she  it  was  who  kept  the  few  gold  pieces  —  all  they 
possessed  in  the  wide  world  —  and  time  and  time 
again  she  saved  the  weak  old  man  from  his  beset- 
ting sins,  the  love  of  money  and  of  gambling. 

But  the  life  told  upon  this  pretty  home-child; 
as  her  soul  grew  stronger,  her  body  grew  weaker; 
the  long  tramps,  the  exposure  to  rain  and  wind,  the 
heavy  night  air,  would  have  killed  a  stronger  per- 
son, and  so  Little  Nell  sickened,  and,  after  much 
weariness  and  pain,  she  died,  when  not  quite  seven- 
teen, and  Dickens  mourned  for  her  with  all  the 
grief  of  his  great  heart.  He  hated  to  have  her 
die;  he  lingered  over  the  last  part  of  her  short 
life,  and  lived  over  again  the  death  of  Mary 
Hogarth. 

Yet  Little  Nell's  adventures  were  not  all  sad, 
some  were  indeed  most  laughable.  The  two  quiet 
wanderers  fell  in  with  an  odd  lot  of  people.  Their 
first  acquaintances  ran  a  Punch  and  Judy  show,  and 
went  from  village  to  village  with  their  little  theater, 
Nell  and  her  grandfather  trudging  along,  glad  to 
have  found  even  these  wayside  friends. 

At  the  "  Jolly  Sandboys'  "  inn,  they  came  across 
the  owner  of  a  band  of  trained  dogs,  also  exhibit- 


136  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ing  along  the  road,  and  the  dogs  themselves  were 
allowed  to  enter  and  make  themselves  at  home. 
Dickens  was  always  very  happy  in  his  descriptions 
of  dogs,  and  Jerry,  the  trainer,  certainly  knew  his 
family.  Nell  wished  to  throw  some  meat  to  the 
hungry  group,  who  were  patiently  waiting,  on  their 
hind  legs,  but  he  stopped  her: 

"  *  No,  my  dear,  no,  not  an  atom  from  anybody's 
hand  but  mine,  if  you  please.  That  dog,'  said 
Jerry,  pointing  out  the  old  leader  of  the  troop,  and 
speaking  in  a  terrible  voice,  *  lost  a  half -penny 
to-day.     He  goes  without  his  supper/ 

"  The  unfortunate  creature  dropped  upon  his 
forelegs  directly,  wagged  his  tail,  and  looked  im- 
ploringly at  his  master. 

"  *  You  must  be  more  careful,  sir,'  said  Jerry, 
walking  coolly  to  the  chair  where  he  had  placed 
the  organ,  and  setting  the  stop.  *  Come  here. 
Now,  sir,  you  play  away  at  that  while  we  have 
supper,  and  leave  off  if  you  dare.' 

"  The  dog  immediately  began  to  grind  the  most 
mournful  music.  His  master,  having  shown  him 
the  whip,  resumed  his  seat  and  called  up  the  others, 
who,  at  his  directions,  formed  in  a  row,  standing 
upright  as  a  file  of  soldiers. 

"  ^  Now,  gentlemen,'  said  Jerry,  looking  at  them 
attentively,  '  the  dog  whose  name's  called,  eats. 
The  dogs  whose  names  ain't  called,  keeps  quiet. 
Carlo ! ' 

*'  The  lucky  dog  whose  name  was  called,  snapped 


MASTER  HU.AIPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  137 

Up  the  morsel  thrown  towards  him,  but  none  of 
the  others  moved  a  muscle.  In  this  manner  they 
were  fed  at  the  discretion  of  their  master.  Mean- 
w^hile,  the  dog  in  disgrace  ground  hard  at  the 
organ,  sometimes  in  quick  time,  sometimes  in  slow, 
but  never  leaving  off  for  an  instant." 

As  a  boy,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Dickens  was 
fairly  intimate  with  these  traveling  show-people, 
who  wandered  about  the  Kentish  country  where 
he  lived,  for  he  seemed  familiar  with  all  the  tricks 
of  their  poor  trades,  and  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Jarley, 
the  proprietress  of  the  far-famed  Wax  Works,  was 
most  certainly  a  portrait  from  life. 

But  in  spite  of  our  fondness  for  Little  Nell  and 
our  sorrow  over  her  untimely  death,  we  find  our- 
selves making  excuses  for  her  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, and  this  was  not  really  what  the  author 
intended.  Without  realizing  what  he  had  done,  he 
had  turned  a  charming  little  heroine  into  an  uncon- 
scious little  prig,  and  few  people  —  even  to  this 
day  —  can  be  induced  to  look  at  her  through  his 
eyes. 

Great  authors  often  unthinkingly  do  these 
things.  It  is  told  of  Thackeray  that  one  of  his 
characters  in  "  The  Newxomes,"  possessed  a  great 
vice,  of  which  he  w^as  ignorant.  This  was  a  cer- 
tain Mrs.  Macken^^ie,  otherwise  known  as  The 
Campaigner.  "  Thackeray  didn't  know  it,  but  she 
drank !  "  declared  one  of  his  friends,  and  no  doubt 
she  was  right.     So  with  Dickens ;  he  started  out  to 


138  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

create  an  exceptional  child,  and  he  did;  but  it  was 
not  the  child  he  thought  of  so  tenderly,  it  was  the 
little  slavey  in  the  Brass's  establishment,  known  to 
fame  as  the  Marchioness,  who  was  indeed  the  real 
heroine  of  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop.'* 

The  story,  indeed,  had  little  to  do  with  its  title, 
for  beyond  our  first  glimpse  of  the  ding}^,  dusty 
old  place,  we  see  nothing  more  of  it.  In  fact,  it 
is  to  be  doubted  if  the  Marchioness  knew  a  thing 
about  it,  for  when  first  seen  she  was  picking  up, 
literally,  the  very  crumbs  of  existence  in  the  house- 
hold of  Sampson  Brass  and  his  flinty  sister  Sally, 
who  lived  in  a  small  dark  house  and  practiced  law 
in  a  mean,  cheap  way.  They  were  not  very  pleas- 
ant people  —  this  brother  and  sister  —  but  they  ran 
a  pretty  lively  business  —  Miss  Sally  knowing  quite 
enough  of  the  law  to  be  her  brother's  able 
assistant  —  until  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  came  upon 
the  scene  and  took  much  of  the  business  out  of  her 
hands. 

As  Sampson  Brass's  head  clerk,  he  was  often 
left  in  charge  in  the  big,  dirty  office,  and  here  he 
was  startled  one  day  by  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door. 

'' '  Come  in ! '  he  called. 

''  *  Oh,  please,'  said  a  little  voice,  very  low  down 
in  the  doorway,  '  will  you  come  and  show  the 
lodgings  ?  ' 

"  Dick  leaned  on  the  table  and  descried  a  small, 
slipshod  girl,  in  a  dirty,  coarse  apron  and  bib,  which 
left  nothing  of  her  visible  but  her  face  and  feet ;  she 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  139 

might  as  well  have  been  dressed  in  a  violin-case. 

"  '  Why,  who  are  you  ?  '  said  Dick. 

''  To  which  the  only  reply  was,  '  Oh,  please,  will 
you  come  and  show  the  lodgings  ? ' 

"  There  never  was  such  an  old-fashioned  child 
in  her  looks  and  manner.  She  must  have  been  at 
work  from  her  cradle.  She  seemed  as  much  afraid 
of  Dick  as  Dick  was  amazed  at  her. 

"  '  I  haven't  got  anything  to  do  with  the  lodgings,' 
said  Dick.     *  Tell  'em  to  call  again.' 

"  '  Oh,  but  please  will  you  come  and  show  the 
lodgings,'  returned  the  girl;  Mt's  eighteen  shillings 
a  week,  and  us  finding  plate  and  linen.  Boots  and 
clothes  is  extra,  and  fires  in  winter-time  is  eight- 
pence  a  day.' 

'' ^  Why  don't  you  show  'em  yourself?  You 
seem  to  know  all  about  'em,'  said  Dick. 

"  *  Miss  Sally  said  I  w^asn't  to,  because  people 
wouldn't  believe  the  attendance  was  good,  if  they 
saw  how  small  I  was  first.' 

"  '  Well,  but  they'll  see  how  small  you  are  after- 
wards, won't  they  ? '  said  Dick. 

"  *  Ah !  but  then  they'll  have  taken  'em  for  a 
fortnight  certain,'  replied  the  child,  with  a  shrewd 
look ;  '  and  people  don't  like  moving  when  they're 
once  settled.' 

"  '  This  is  a  queer  sort  of  thing,'  muttered  Dick, 
rising.  '  What  do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  — 
the  cook  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,   I  do  plain  cooking !  '  replied  the  child. 


I40  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

'  I'm  housemaid,  too ;  I  do  all  the  work  of  the 
house.'  " 

She  was  a  pathetic,  meager  little  figure,  a  pack  of 
skin  and  bones,  topped  by  a  sharp,  thin  face,  out 
of  which  the  eyes  looked  hungrily.  She  was  so 
small  —  yet  for  all  that,  so  alive,  so  active,  that 
one  was  quite  sure  she  was  telling  the  truth  when 
she  boasted  of  doing  all  the  housework. 

Dickens  was  particularly  happy  in  the  drawing 
of  this  remarkable  child,  chiefly  because,  as  we 
know,  the  little  maid-of -all- work  who  came  with 
the  family  from  the  Chatham  workhouse  rose  in 
his  mind  as  the  living  portrait  of  his  poor  little 
Marchioness.  What  hopes  and  aspirations  were 
hidden  beneath  the  dingy  apron  and  the  extinguish- 
ing cap,  who  can  say!  This  small  person  knew 
nothing  about  herself;  never  within  her  recollection 
had  she  owned  a  name ;  her  age,  too,  was  a  mystery, 
she  might  have  been  six  or  sixteen  or  sixty  —  she 
was  so  young  and  so  old.  She  had  not  been 
brought  up  in  the  straight  and  narrow  road  of 
virtue,  and  the  Brass  household  was  not  exactly 
the  place  where  virtue  had  its  own  reward.  Her 
inquisitive  eye  being  on  a  level  with  the  key-hole, 
much  useful  information  came  to  her  through  that 
convenient  opening.  Her  real  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  Richard  Sunveller  was  the  outcome  of  this 
peeping.  The  poor  child  saw  him  playing  a  soli- 
tary game  of  cribbage  in  the  deserted  office,  late 
one  evening,  and  he  caught  the  gleam  of  her  eye 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  141 

at  the  key-hole.  "  He  stole  softly  to  the  door  and 
pounced  upon  her  before  she  was  aware  of  his  ap- 
proach. 

"  '  Oh  I  didn't  mean  any  harm,  indeed,  upon 
my  word  I  didn't,'  cried  the  small  servant,  strug- 
gling like  a  much  larger  one.  '  It's  so  very  dull 
downstairs.  Please  don't  you  tell  upon  me,  please 
don't' 

"  '  Tell  upon  you ! '  said  Dick.  *  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  were  looking  through  the  key-hole  for 
company  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  upon  my  word,  I  was,'  replied  the  small 
servant. 

"  *  How  long  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye 
there  ? '  said  Dick. 

*'  *  Oh,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them 
cards  and  long  before.'  " 

The  kind  heart  of  Mr.  Sunveller  was  touched, 
and  he  asked  her  in ;  but  the  small  maid  was  afraid 
of  Miss  Sally's  wrath  if  she  left  her  kitchen. 
Whereupon  her  new  friend  decided  to  go  down  and 
visit  her;  also  to  teach  her  the  secrets  of  that  won- 
derful game. 

Something  beat  tumultuously  beneath  the  apron 
—  it  was  the  grateful  heart  of  the  little  servant, 
for  Mr,  Swiveller  not  only  taught  her  cribbage, 
but,  seeing  how  thin  she  was,  decided  that  she 
needed  bread  and  meat,  and  spread  a  delicious  treat 
before  her  bewildered,  hungry  eyes,  and  suddenly 
within  that  same  little  heart  sprang  a   feeling  of 


142  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

dog-like  devotion  for  the  idle,  happy-go-lucky  law- 
yer's clerk,  who  in  his  facetious  manner  dubbed 
her  the  Marchioness,  and  thereafter  treated  her 
with  a  courtliness  which,  whether  real  or  feigned, 
pleased  the  child  exceedingly. 

Even  a  kitchen-maid  may  have  great  moments, 
and  the  Marchioness  gloried  in  this  new  name ;  it 
suggested  coronets  and  satin  gowns  and  dainty 
slippers,  to  replace  the  cap  and  apron,  and  slipshod 
shoes  and  stockings  out  at  the  heels;  and  to  her, 
the  shabby  and  seedy  Richard,  "  down  on  his 
luck  "  and  out  at  the  elbows,  was  a  very  prince 
among  men,  which  showed  that  at  least  the  small 
servant  had  an  imagination. 

Indeed,  these  two  obscure,  rather  common-place 
people,  give  just  that  human  touch  to  the  whole 
story  without  which  there  would  have  been  neither 
light  nor  color.  Quilp  was  a  goblin;  the  Brasses, 
attending  ghouls;  and  Little  Nell,  a  flitting  wraith 
—  a  ghost  —  an  angel ;  the  single  gentleman,  the 
Garlands,  even  Kit,  were  but  a  supporting  back- 
ground for  the  carefully  planned  plot;  but  Dick 
Swiveller  and  his  Marchioness,  ignorant  of  every- 
thing going  on  about  them,  yet  proved  the  m.ost 
important  link  in  the  story,  because  of  the  Mar- 
chioness's propensity  for  looking  and  listening 
through  key-holes.  Not  that  it  is  right  to  do  such 
things,  but  when  one  has  been  locked  for  the  night, 
in  a  big,  dark  kitchen,  and  accidentally  finds  an- 
other key,  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  make  one's  escape, 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  143 

and  many  a  night  this  smah  elfin  child  enjoyed  the 
freedom  of  the  house,  quite  unknown  to  her  hard- 
hearted jailer.  It  was  on  such  an  occasion  that 
the  Marchioness,  hearing  voices  beyond  a  certain 
closed  door,  put  her  eye  to  the  key-hole  and  then 
her  ear,  gleaning  thereby  much  general  informa- 
tion which  proved  useful  in  the  course  of  the  story. 

It  was  when  Dick  Szviveller  lay  at  the  point  of 
death  in  his  lonely  lodgings  that  the  real  gold  shone 
forth  in  the  character  of  the  forlorn  little  Mar- 
chioness. For  the  last  time  making  use  of  her 
secret  key,  she  slipped  from  the  house,  found  the 
sick  man's  lodgings,  and,  calling  herself  his  sister, 
went  boldly  upstairs  and  took  charge.  Faithfully 
she  stuck  to  her  post  —  night  and  day  —  until  Mr. 
Swiveller  rewarded  her  devotion  by  opening  his 
eyes  and  proceeding  to  get  better.  Poor  little 
Marchioness!  Such  a  little  bag  of  bones  to  hold 
such  tender,  human  feelings!  We  cannot  help 
laughing  at  her  and  loving  her  at  the  same  time. 

And  this  is  where  Dickens  was  at  his  best ;  there 
was  no  striving  after  effect  —  no  trying  to  paint 
a  picture,  as  in  the  case  of  dear,  saintly  Little  Nell. 
This  little  waif  sprang  out  of  the  darkness,  a  fairy 
in  disguise,  a  real  thinking,  feeling  child,  for  all 
her  wizen,  old-woman  ways,  and  to  Dick  Szviveller , 
lying  weak  and  helpless  in  his  bed,  she  seemed  a 
veritable  angel.  No  doubt  he  could  see  celestial 
wings  sprouting  gloriously  from  the  thin  shoulder- 
blades,  and  we  are  glad  to  know  that  her  Grace, 


144  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  Marchioness,  attained  her  heart's  desire  in  the 
end. 

It  is  strange  how  one's  dearest  hopes  are  often 
miscarried.  All  the  love  and  devotion  and  tender- 
ness in  Dickens's  heart,  was  poured  into  the  life 
and  death  of  Little  Nell.  Towards  the  close  of  the 
story  he  became  very  ill  —  probably  the  result  of 
overwork  —  for  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  proved 
a  very  serious  undertaking,  and  the  task  of  pre- 
senting an  installment  of  *'  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop "  every  week  was  stupendous.  The  killing 
of  Little  Nell  nearly  broke  his  heart;  he  loved  the 
child  as  if  she  was  his  own;  her  death  cast  its 
shadow  upon  him;  and  the  vision  of  Mary  Hogarth 
opened  all  the  old  gateways  of  his  grief. 

Altogether  the  story  was  a  brilliant  success;  it 
satisfied  so  many  in  so  many  diffierent  ways.  Orig- 
inally intended  as  a  short  tale  of  half-a-dozen  chap- 
ters, it  grew  to  much  more  imposing  size,  from 
the  very  needs  of  the  characters,  and  it  is  pretty 
certain  that  when  good  Master  Humphrey  com- 
menced to  read  from  the  yellow  manuscript  he 
found  in  the  old  case  where  the  pendulum  swung, 
he  had  no  idea  how  long  it  would  take  to  reach 
the  end.  And  that  the  story  lives  to-day,  and  is 
loved  alike  by  young  and  old,  is  the  best  tribute 
to  its  worth. 

After  Dickens's  death,  far  away  in  the  Sierras, 
our  own  Bret  Harte  wrote  the  following  lines  to 
his  memory  and  that  of  Little  Nell: 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  FIRST  TALE.  145 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow: 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humour,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  fire-light  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Litttle  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy,  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all, 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall; 

The  fir-trees  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows. 

Listened  in  every  spray. 
While    the    whole    camp,    with    "  Nell "    on    English 
meadows. 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 


146  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire; 

And  he  who  VvTOught  that  spell? 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell : 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  wath  the  breath  that  thrills 

With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DICKENS     AND     THE     HISTORICAL     NOVEL. 


ASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK 
ticked  away  most  industriously  from 
April  21,  1840,  until  November  27,  1841. 
There    were    eighty-eight    weekly    num- 


bers in  all,  thoroughly  illustrated  by  the  artists 
who  made  Dickens's  works  a  specialty;  and  prob- 
ably this  enterprising  periodical  would  have  lived 
much  longer,  had  Dickens  been  able  to  bear 
the  continual  strain  upon  his  energy.  Once  he  had 
fallen  ill  during  the  writing  of  "  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop,"  but  he  never  missed  a  weekly  installment. 
He  was  far  from  well,  however,  when  he  began  to 
think  of  another  serial.  The  scene  was,  as  usual, 
to  be  laid  around  London,  but  the  time,  1775-80, 
was  remote  enough  to  give  him  an  historical 
background,  and  the  half-forgotten  London  Riots 
had  never  —  to  his  knowledge  —  found  their  way 
into  fiction;  they  never  made  much  stir  in  history, 
for  they  were  promptly  quelled  at  the  very  begin- 
ning, and  Lord  George  Gordon,  the  leader,  was 
thrown  into  prison.  It  was  a  war  between  the 
Protestants  and  the  Papists,  the  mob  was  Protes- 
tant, and  the  war-cry  "  No  Popery !  "   rang  men- 

147 


148  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

acingly  through  the  London  streets.  Poor  Lord 
Gordon  was  hopelessly  mad  when  his  brief  glory 
came  to  an  end;  indeed,  he  may  have  been  on  the 
verge  of  insanity  when  the  Riots  broke  out.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  a  mad  cause  with  a  mad  ending, 
and  it  is  little  wonder  that  the  hero  of  "  Barnaby 
Rudge  "  should  be  a.  witless  fellow,  in  short,  Barn- 
aby himself,  so  impressed  was  the  author  with  the 
madness  of  it  all. 

Dickens  was  from  first  to  last  in  the  heart  of 
the  mob;  being  of  the  people,  he  saw  through  their 
eyes,  and  through  the  vivid  scenes  which  led  to 
the  burning  of  Newgate,  it  was  the  feelings  of 
the  mob  with  which  he  had  to  do.  Even  in  a  state 
of  frenzy  he  knew  the  people  —  knew  how  a  breath 
would  sway  them,  how  a  word  would  stir  them  — 
knew  how  childish,  how  idiotic  a  mob  may  be ;  and 
so  he  drew  Barnaby  Rudge,  and  thrust  the  idiot 
into  the  midst  of  it. 

This  was  the  second  of  Master  Humphrey's  tales, 
and  at  its  close  the  Clock  ran  down.  Too  much 
pressure  had  been  put  upon  it,  too  much  work 
upon  the  editor,  and  with  a  few  closing  words 
Master  Humphrey  shut  the  door  where  the  pendu- 
lum swung  —  and  spoke  no  more. 

It  is  rather  curious  that  Dickens  wrote  but  two 
novels  with  historical  backgrounds :  "  Barnaby 
Rudge,"  a  tale  of  hot-headed  youth,  where  the 
mob  rent  the  air  with  boyish  shouts  and  rough 
laughter,   and    **  A   Tale   of   Two   Cities,"    where 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       149 

sullen  hate  burned  low  and  red,  where  there  was 
no  laughter,  but  the  muffled  roar  of  angry  men 
and  women  —  a  mob  of  London  and  a  mob  of 
Paris,  with  nearly  twenty  years  between  the  writ- 
ing; the  first  —  the  work  of  eager  young  enthu- 
siasm, the  last,  of  mature  thought  and  perfect  art. 

The  magic  pen  of  Scott  had  burrowed  into  the 
history  of  centuries  ago,  and  had  told  of  people 
and  happenings  in  those  remote  times,  describing 
manners  and  customs  far  removed  from  those  of 
his  own  day,  showing  us  pictures  upon  which  even 
now  we  love  to  gaze.  Dickens  did  more;  he  took 
us  by  the  hand  and  drew  us  with  him  into  the  very 
midst  of  yesterday  —  the  yesterday  of  history,  but 
not  so  far  away  as  to  make  the  people  seem  un- 
real. 

"  Barnaby  Rudge  "  opens  in  1775,  and  "  A  Tale 
of  Two  Cities  "  but  a  few  years  later,  during  the 
last  years  of  the  French  Revolution.  There  is  a 
long  step  between  Barnaby  and  Sydney  Carton, 
yet  both  heroes  stand  out  very  sharply,  the  lovable 
idiot — with  his  shock  of  red  hair,  his  wide-open 
staring  eyes,  his  fantastic  dress,  and  the  still  more 
fantastic  bird,  which  was  his  inseparable  companion 
—  and  the  man  of  fine  intellect,  befogged  by  too 
much  wine,  dragged  down,  indeed,  to  the  lowest 
depths,  only  to  be  lifted  by  a  great  deed,  to  the 
very  heights. 

No  two   stories  could  be  more  unlike,   yet  the 

life  and  motion  seem  the  same ;  only  in  "  A  Tale 
11 


150  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

of  Two  Cities  "  the  greatness  of  the  theme  cast 
all  the  actors  in  heroic  mold.  We  know  that  the 
tragedy  of  the  French  Revolution  existed  and 
blighted  that  fair  land,  while  the  Gordon  Riots  were 
but  a  tempest  in  a  teapot,  just  a  few  hangings  at 
the  end  —  and  all  was  over. 

"  Barnaby  Rudge  "  is  bubbling  with  youth ;  it  is 
the  work  of  a  vigorous  young  man,  and  it  deals 
with  men  of  types  —  ranging  from  the  courtly  old 
villain.  Sir  John  Chester,  to  the  fine  figure  and 
vacant  mind  of  poor  Barnaby,  who  inspires  our 
love  and  pity  as  he  dances  his  way  through  the 
book. 

Strangely  full  of  wisdom  is  this  idiot  boy  some- 
times, a  poet,  too,  in  his  childish,  simple  nature, 
fond  of  the  outer  world,  quick  to  see  the  beauties 
of  a  sunrise  or  a  sunset,  a  flower  or  a  tree;  adoring 
his  widowed  mother,  but  giving  the  best  of  his  af- 
fection to  Grip,  the  raven,  who  was  always  with 
him  wherever  he  traveled  —  and  Barnaby' s  restless 
feet  were  always  traveling  somewhere.  Often  he 
wandered  for  days,  and  Grip  went,  too,  sometimes 
perched  upon  his  master's  shoulder,  sometimes  in 
the  basket  which  Barnaby  always  carried  stocked 
with  food  for  his  favorite,  and  a  bite  for  himself. 

This  was  a  remarkable  bird,  and,  if  ever  there 
was  a  portrait  drawn  from  life,  Grip's  was  surely 
one.  Dickens  owned  two  of  these  birds;  the  first 
of  which  was  actually  named  Grip.  This  raven 
was  the  delight  and  terror  of  the  family  circle  — 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       151 

but  he  came  to  an  untimely  end.  He  had  been  ail- 
ing for  some  days  —  as  Topping,  the  coachman, 
reported  —  but  somehow  Dickens  was  quite  un- 
prepared for  the  end,  which  came  suddenly.  He 
wrote  to  his  friend,  Maclise,  a  full  account  of  the 
Raven's  last  hours: 

"  You  will  be  greatly  shocked  and  grieved  to 
hear  that  the  Raven  is  no  more.  He  expired  to- 
day at  a  few  minutes  after  twelve  o'clock.  He  had 
been  ailing  for  a  few  days,  but  we  anticipated  no 
serious  result,  conjecturing  that  a  portion  of  the 
white  paint  he  swallowed  last  summer  might  be 
lingering  about  his  vitals.  Yesterday  afternoon  he 
was  taken  so  much  worse  that  I  sent  an  express 
for  the  medical  gentleman,  who  promptly  attended 
and  administered  a  powerful  dose  of  castor  oil. 
Under  the  influence  of  this  medicine,  he  recovered 
so  far  as  to  be  able,  at  8  o'clock  p.  m.,  to  bite  Top- 
ping. This  morning  at  daybreak  he  appeared 
better  and  partook  plentifully  of  some  warm  gruel, 
the  flavor  of  which  he  appeared  to  relish.  Toward 
eleven  o'clock  he  was  so  much  worse  that  it  was 
found  necessary  to  muffle  the  stable  knocker.  At 
half  past  or  thereabouts,  he  was  heard  talking  to 
himself  about  the  horse  and  Topping's  family,  and 
to  add  some  incoherent  expressions  which  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  either  a  foreboding  of  his  ap- 
proaching dissolution  or  some  wishes  relative  to 
the  disposal  of  his  little  property,  consisting  chiefly 
of   half-pence   which   he   had    buried   in   different 


152  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

parts  of  the  garden.  On  the  clock  striking  twelve 
he  appeared  slightly  agitated,  but  he  soon  recovered, 
v^alked  twice  or  thrice  along  the  coach  house, 
stopped  to  bark,  staggered,  and  exclaimed,  *  Halloa, 
old  Girl!'  (his  favorite  expression)  and  died. 
He  behaved  throughout  with  decent  fortitude, 
equanimity,  and  self-possession.  I  deeply  regret 
that,  being  in  ignorance  of  his  danger,  I  did  not 
attend  to  receive  his  last  instructions. 

"  Something  remarkable  about  his  eyes  occa- 
sioned Topping  to  run  for  the  doctor  at  twelve. 
When  they  returned  together  —  our  friend  was 
gone.  It  was  the  medical  gentleman  who  informed 
me  of  his  decease.  He  did  it  with  caution  and 
delicacy,  preparing  me  by  the  remark  that  '  a  jolly 
queer  start  had  taken  place.'  I  am  not  wholly 
free  from  suspicions  of  poison.  A  malicious 
butcher  has  been  heard  to  say  that  he  would  '  do  ' 
for  him.  His  plea  was  that  he  would  not  be  mo- 
lested in  taking  orders  ...  by  any  bird  that 
wore  a  tail.  .  .  .  'Kate  is  as  well  as  can  be  ex- 
pected. The  children  seem  rather  glad  of  it.  He 
bit  their  ankles,  but  that  was  in  play." 

This  letter  was  sealed  with  an  enormous  mourn- 
ing badge  and  sent  to  the  famous  artist,  who  im- 
mortalized Grip's  entrance  into  a  new  life  by  a 
wonderful  pen  and  ink  sketch  of  the  Raven,  stiff 
in  death,  while  his  soul  —  represented  by  several 
little  white-winged  ravens  —  is  soaring  in  the 
clouds  to  that  sphere  where  good  ravens  go. 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       153 

As  "  Barnaby  Rudge ''  was  still  unfinished,  an- 
other Grip  had  to  be  found.  He  tells  us  in  the 
preface  to  the  book  that  a  friend  of  his  in  York- 
shire discovered  an  older  and  more  gifted  raven, 
at  a  village  public-house,  which  he  purchased  from 
the  landlord  and  sent  up  to  him.     He  writes : 

"  The  first  act  of  this  Sage  was  to  administer  to 
the  effects  of  his  predecessor,  by  disinterring  all 
the  cheese  and  half-pence  he  had  buried  in  the 
garden,  a  work  of  immense  labor  and  research,  to 
which  he  devoted  all  the  energies  of  his  mind. 
When  he  had  achieved  this  task,  he  applied  him- 
self to  the  acquisition  of  stable  language,  in  which 
he  became  such  an  adept  that  he  would  perch  out- 
side my  window  and  drive  imaginary  horses  with 
great  skill  all  day.  Perhaps  even  I  never  saw  him 
at  his  best,  for  his  former  master  sent  his  duty 
with  him,  '  and  if  I  wished  the  bird  to  come  out 
very  strong,  would  I  be  so  good  as  to  show  him 
a  drimken  man' — which  I  never  did,  having  (un- 
fortunately) none  but  sober  people  at  hand.  .  .  . 
Once  I  met  him  unexpectedly  about  half-a-mile 
from  my  house,  walking  down  the  middle  of  a 
public  street,  attended  by  a  pretty  large  crowd,  and 
spontaneously  exhibiting  the  whole  of  his  accom- 
plishments. His  gravity  under  those  trying  cir- 
cumstances I  can  never  forget,  nor  the  extraor- 
dinary gallantry  with  which,  refusing  to  be  brought 
home,  he  defended  himself  behind  a  pump  until 
overpowered  by  numbers." 


154  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

It  is  wonderful  that  raven  number  two  lived  as 
long  as  he  did,  for  his  master  records  the  most 
remarkable  diet:  he  dug  the  mortar  out  of  the 
garden  wall,  ate  the  putty  from  the  frames  that 
held  the  window-panes,  and  swallowed  in  splinters 
most  of  a  wooden  staircase;  and  after  three  years 
he,  too,  died,  quietly,  before  the  kitchen  fire. 

"  He  kept  his  eye  to  the  last  upon  the  meat  as 
it  roasted,  and  suddenly  turned  over  on  his  back, 
with  a  sepulchral  cry  of  *  Cuckoo ! '  Since  then 
I  have  been  ravenless." 

The  first  and  best  beloved  raven  was  stuflfed, 
and  lived  in  a  glass  case  in  his  master's  study. 
After  Dickens  died,  there  was  a  great  sale  at  Gad's 
Hill,  and  the  bird  —  in  the  heat  and  excitement  of 
the  bidding  —  brought  many  hundred  pounds. 

All  through  the  story  flitted  this  raven,  a  bird 
of  omen,  croaking  out  queer  things  that  seemed  al- 
most impossible  for  a  bird  to  say,  yet  the  power 
of  speech  was  undeniably  his,  and  his  presence  — 
always  with  this  idiot  boy  —  seemed  to  bestow 
upon  poor  Barnaby  a  little  of  the  sense  he  lacked. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  —  who  was  one  of  Dickens's 
famous  American  critics  —  may  probably  have 
obtained  his  first  conception  of  "  The  Raven  "  in 
this  way,  for  the  poem  did  not  appear  till  1845, 
while  "  Barnaby  Rudge "  was  published  in  Mas- 
ter Humphreys  Clock  in  1841. 

There  was  a  dark  and  gruesome  myster^^  run- 
ning through  this  tale,  but  there  were  some  bits  of 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       155 

color,  even  the  glint  of  rainbow  tints  round  little 
Dolly  Varden.  Charming,  simple,  and  very  young 
—  Miss  Dolly  soon  became  the  toast  of  the  town, 
after  she  had  glided  from  beneath  the  pen-point  of 
the  author.  There  were  only  five  women  men- 
tioned in  the  book  —  the  pale-faced  mother  of 
Barnahy,  Mrs.  Varden  and  her  attendant,  Miss 
Miggs,  Emma  Haredale,  and  little  Dolly,  the  streak 
of  sunshine  in  the  book. 

Having  two  little  girls  of  his  own,  it  w^as  only 
natural  that  Dickens  should  bestow  much  attention 
upon  the  girls  in  his  books.  We  see  Dolly  first 
peeping  out  of  her  bedroom  window,  a  picture  of 
youth  and  roguishness ;  "  a  face  lighted  up  by  the 
loveliest  pair  of  sparkling  eyes  that  ever  locksmith 
looked  upon;  the  face  of  a  pretty  laughing  girl; 
dimpled  and  fresh  and  healthful,  the  very  imper- 
sonation of  good  humor  and  blooming  beauty." 

Old  Gabriel  Varden,  the  jolly  locksmith,  consid- 
ered his  little  daughter  the  very  light  of  his  eyes, 
and,  but  for  her,  the  old  fellow  would  have  had  a 
sorry  time  of  it  at  home;  for  Mrs.  Varden  was 
one  of  those  good  ladies  with  a  perpetual  chip  on 
her  shoulder,  and  Miss  Miggs,  her  grim,  gaunt 
handmaiden,  saw  that  there  was  always  a  grievance 
on  hand. 

"  *  ^liggs  is  a  comfort  to  me,  whatever  she 
may  be  to  others,' "  said  the  suffering  Mrs. 
Varden. 

"  '  She's  no  comfort  to  me,'  cried  Gabriel,  made 


156  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

bold  by  despair.  *  She's  the  misery  of  my  life. 
She's  all  the  plagues  of  Egypt  in  one.' 

"  *  Oh,  Doll,  Doll,'  said  her  good-natured  father; 

*  if  you  ever  have  a  husband  of  your  own — ' 

"  Dolly  glanced  at  the  glass. 

"  *  Well,   when  you  have,'    said   the   locksmith, 

*  never  faint,  my  darling.  More  domestic  unhap- 
piness  comes  of  easy  fainting,  Doll,  than  from  all 
the  greater  passions  put  together.  Remember  that, 
my  dear,  if  you  would  be  really  happy,  which  you 
never  can  be  if  your  husband  isn't.  And  a  word 
in  your  ear,  my  precious.  Never  have  a  Miggs 
about  you ! ' 

"  With  this  advice  he  kissed  his  blooming 
daughter  on  the  cheek." 

Could  anything  be  sweeter  than  Miss  Dolly, 
ready  and  equipped  for  a  ride  to  Chigwell,  ''  in  a 
smart  little  cherry-colored  mantle,  with  a  hood  of 
the  same  drawn  over  her  head,  and  on  the  top  of 
that  hood  a  little  straw  hat  trimmed  with  cherry- 
colored  ribbons,  and  worn  the  merest  trifle  on  one 
side  —  just  enough,  in  short,  to  make  it  the  wicked- 
est and  most  provoking  head-dress  that  ever  ma- 
licious milliner  devised.  And  not  to  speak  of  the 
manner  in  which  those  cherry-colored  decorations 
brightened  her  eyes,  or  vied  with  her  lips,  or  shed 
a  new  bloom  on  her  face;  she  wore  such  a  cruel 
little  muff,  and  such  a  heart-rending  pair  of  shoes, 
and  was  so  surrounded  and  hemmed  in,  as  it  were, 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       157 

by  aggravations,  that  when  Mr.  Tappertit  (the  ap- 
prentice) holding  the  horse's  head,  saw  her  come 
out  of  the  house  alone,"  he  felt  very  much  like 
running  away  with  her,  for  the  tiny  little  appren- 
tice was  in  love  —  be  it  known  —  with  Miss  Dolly 
Varden,  who  cared  no  more  for  him  than  for  a 
fly  upon  the  ceiling.  Miss  Dolly,  moreover,  was 
going  for  a  ride  with  her  father  and  mother,  and 
naturally  she  must  look  her  prettiest,  for  there 
were  people  to  be  met  upon  the  road. 

"  The  chaise  creaked  upon  its  springs,  and  Mrs. 
Varden  was  inside;  and  now  it  creaked  again,  and 
more  than  ever,  and  the  blacksmith  was  inside; 
and  now  it  bounded  once  as  if  its  heart  beat  lightly, 
and  Dolly  was  inside;  and  now  it  was  gone  and 
its  place  was  empty,  and  he  (Tappertit)  and  that 
dreary  Miggs  were  standing  in  the  street  together." 

Little  Dolly  worked  into  the  story  by  means  of 
a  letter  which  she  was  to  deliver  to  the  heroine. 
Miss  Emma  Haredale,  at  the  Warren,  the  Hare- 
dale's  home,  some  distance  from  the  Maypole,  the 
inn  kept  by  John  Willet,  where  the  Vardens 
stopped  for  dinner.  And  here  wx  understand  the 
reason  of  the  cherry-colored  ribbons  and  the  be- 
witching tip-tilted  hat,  for  Joe  Willet,  the  son  of 
the  fat  landlord,  was  undeniably  fond  of  cherry 
ribbons  and  Dolly,  while  Dolly  herself  —  well,  she 
liked  big,  honest,  open-hearted,  handsome  young 
fellows  like  Joe,  and  while  it  was  very  dreadful 
to  be  waylaid  in  the  gathering  gloom,  by  the  rough 


158  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  surly  Hugh-,  and  have  one's  bracelet  and  a 
very  precious  letter  stolen,  it  was  very  delightful 
to  discover  that  rescue  was  near  at  hand  in  the 
person  of  Joe  himself  —  to  run  to  him  and  fling 
herself  into  the  shelter  of  his  strong  arms.  Pretty, 
charming  Dolly  Varden! 

Dickens  had  a  portrait  of  her  and  of  Kate 
Nickleby  hanging  in  his  study,  but  even  without 
such  a  reminder  Dolly  would  live  in  our  memory 
through  the  very  care  with  w^hich  Dickens  him- 
self has  painted  her. 

The  "  Dolly  Varden  "  style  of  dress  was  very 
much  the  fashion  years  ago  when  our  mothers  were 
young.  The  plain  petticoat,  over  which  was 
draped  the  flowered  muslin  or  brocade,  in  full 
panniers  on  either  side  of  the  slender  hips;  the 
square-cut  bodice  with  its  full  ruching,  through 
which  the  white  neck  gleamed;  and  the  elbow 
sleeves  with  the  fall  of  a  soft  ruffle  were  very  be- 
witching, and  if  the  wearer  chanced  to  be  young 
and  pretty  —  then  hail  to  the  memory  of  Dolly 
Varden! 

Dickens's  best  and  prettiest  heroines  were  small. 
The  tall  ladies  in  his  books  usually  ran  to  bone  and 
ugliness,  and,  with  few^  exceptions,  they  were  in- 
tensely disagreeable.  And,  though  Charles  Dickens, 
at  the  time  of  the  writing  of  "  Barnaby  Rudge," 
was  a  very  young  father  of  two  very  little  girls,  he 
had  a  very  definite  notion  of  what  a  proper  little 
girl    should    look    like    when    she    lengthened    her 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       159 

dresses  and  put  up  her  curls  —  and  the  picture  of 
Dolly  and  Emma  Haredale  is  a  charming  bit  of 
contrast  and  color. 

"  They  strolled  up  and  down  the  terrace  walks, 
talking  incessantly  —  at  least,  Dolly  never  left  off 
once  —  and  making  that  quarter  of  the  sad  and 
mournful  house  quite  gay.  Not  that  they  talked 
loudly  or  laughed  much,  but  they  were  both  so 
very  handsome,  and  it  was  such  a  breezy  day,  that 
their  light  dresses  and  dark  curls  appeared  so  free 
and  joyous  in  their  abandonment,  and  Emma  was 
so  fair  and  Dolly  so  rosy,  and  Emma  so  delicately 
shaped,  and  Dolly  so  plump,  and,  in  short,  there 
are  no  flowers  for  any  garden  like  such  flowers, 
let  horticulturists  say  what  they  may,  and  both 
house  and  garden  seemed  to  know  it,  and  to 
brighten  up  sensibly." 

Perhaps  the  greatest  contrast  after  all  was  be- 
tween pretty  Dolly  and  Miss  Miggs,  better  known 
as  Miggs  in  the  bosom  of  the  Varden  household. 
Dolly  was  turned  seventeen,  a  favorite  age  with 
Dickens,  and  Miggs  (let  us  be  charitable)  was 
doubtless  ten  years  her  senior  —  the  slender,  at- 
tenuated female  of  the  type  the  novelist  loved  to 
caricature.  Unconscious  little  Dolly  had  inspired 
a  mad  passion  in  the  breast  of  Master  Simon  Tap- 
pertit,  her  father's  apprentice;  Miss  Miggs  had  a 
secret  passion  for  Simon,  and  consequently  a  se- 
cret dislike  of  poor  little  Dolly.  Now  the  little 
Dolly  of  seventeen  grew,  in  the  course  of  five  years, 


l6o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

to  be  twenty-two,  and,  though  there  were  lovers  by 
the  score,  the  saucy  minx  would  have  none  of 
them. 

This  same  Dolly  Varden,  lovelier  than  ever,  "  was 
so  whimsical  and  hard  to  please,  that  she  was  Dolly 
Varden  still,  all  smiles  and  dimples  and  pleasant 
looks,  and  caring  no  more  for  the  fifty  or  sixty 
young  fellows  who  at  that  very  moment  were 
breaking  their  hearts  to  marry  her,  than  if  so  many 
oysters  had  been  crossed  in  love  and  opened  after- 
ward." Dolly,  indeed,  had  grown  from  child  to 
woman,  and  big,  handsome  Joe  Willet  had  been 
away  near  five  years  before  she  found  out  how 
much  of  her  heart  had  gone  with  him. 

Miss  Miggs  was  still  faithful  to  the  little  appren- 
tice, who  turned  out  to  be  a  very  war-like  char- 
acter in  the  course  of  the  story.  Miss  Miggs  had 
many  peculiarities:  she  always  spoke  in  plurals, 
and  turned  on,  at  unexpected  moments,  the  fount 
which  supplied  her  ready  tears.  The  following 
words,  punctuated  with  sobs  and  tears,  is  an  ex- 
ample of  Miggs's  methods.  She  said  "  She 
knowed  that  master  hated  her.  That  it  was  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  live  in  families  that  have  dislikes  and 
not  give  satisfactions.  That  to  make  divisions  was 
a  thing  she  could  not  abear  to  think  of,  neither 
could  her  feelings  let  her  do  it.  That  if  it  was 
master's  wishes  she  and  him  should  part,  it  was 
best  they  should  part,  and  she  hoped  he  might  be 
the  happier   for  it,   and   always  wishes  him   well, 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       l6r 

and  that  he  might  find  somebody  as  would  meet 
his  dispositions.  It  would  be  a  hard  trial  to  part 
from  such  a  missis,  but  she  could  meet  any  suffer- 
ing when  her  conscience  told  her  she  was  in  the 
rights,  and  therefore  she  was  willing  even  to  go 
that  lengths.  She  did  not  think,  she  added,  that 
she  could  survive  the  separations,  but  as  she  w^as 
hated  and  looked  upon  unpleasant,  perhaps  her 
dying  as  soon  as  possible  would  be  the  best  endings 
for  all  parties.  With  this  affecting  conclusion, 
Miss  Miggs  shed  more  tears,  and  sobbed  abun- 
dantly." 

Later,  when  the  locksmith's  house  was  besieged 
by  the  rioters,  Miss  Miggs  it  was  who,  from  an 
upper  window,  called  out  in  terror,  imploring  them 
"  to  have  pity  on  her  sex's  weaknesses." 

Dickens  was  much  interested  in  the  illustrations 
of  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  which  covered 
the  two  stories  — "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  "  and 
*'  Barnaby  Rudge  " —  the  work  of  which  was  done 
by  George  Cattermole  and  Hablot  K.  Browne. 
Mr.  Cattermole  married  a  distant  cousin  of  Dickens, 
and  consequently  the  letters  exchanged  between 
them  are  somewhat  intimate  in  tone. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  Dickens  writes,  "  if  you  feel 
ravens  in  general  and  would  fancy  Barnaby's  raven 
in  particular.  Barnaby  being  an  idiot,  my  notion 
is  to  have  him  always  in  company  with  a  pet  raven 
who  is  immeasurably  more  knowing  than  himself. 
To  this  end   I  have  been  studying  my  bird,   and 


l62  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

think  I  could  make  a  very  queer  character  of  him. 
Should  you  like  the  subject  when  this  raven  makes 
his  first  appearance?" 

^'  My  dear  George :  "  he  writes  again. 

"  Here  is  a  subject  for  the  next  number ;  the 
next  to  that  I  hope  to  send  you  the  MS.  of,  very 
early  in  the  week,  as  the  best  opportunities  for 
illustration  are  all  coming  off  now  and  we  are  in 
the  thick  of  the  story." 

Here  he  gives  an  account  of  the  rioters  burn- 
ing and  plundering  in  the  countryside  around  May- 
pole Inn,  and  the  destruction  of  the  Warren,  the 
home  of  the  Haredales,  which  was  to  be  illustrated, 
and  for  which  he  gave  many  valuable  suggestions, 
for  he  was  one  writer  who  understood  the  real 
need  of  pictures  in  literature,  something  that  ap- 
pealed to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the  "  mind's  eye." 
And  the  artists  who  worked  so  zealously  had  no 
easy  time  of  it,  because  they  had  to  be  mechanics 
as  well,  and  be  able  to  transfer  their  drawings 
onto  blocks  of  wood  prepared  for  the  purpose;  this 
was  in  itself  an  art  called  wood-cutting,  and  very 
rough  and  crude  work  it  looks  compared  with  the 
wonderful  illustrations  of  to-day.  There  were  cer- 
tain rules  about  light  and  shade  which  were  very 
hard  to  follow  in  wood-cutting,  hence  most  of  the 
pictures  in  Dickens's  time,  looked  staringly  black 
and  white,  because  the  various  "  washes "  and 
**  tones  "  which  we  have  to-day  to  soften  things 
were  not  heard  of  then. 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       163 

Here  is  another  suggestion: 

"  My  dear  George  : 

"  When  Hugh  and  a  small  body  of  the  rioters, 
cut  off  from  the  Warren,  beckoned  to  their  pals, 
they  forced  into  a  very  remarkable  postchaise 
Dolly  Varden  and  Emma  Haredale,  and  bore  them 
away  with  all  possible  rapidity;  one  of  their  com- 
pany driving,  the  rest  running  beside  the  chaise, 
climbing  up  behind,  sitting  on  the  top,  lighting 
the  w^ay  with  their  torches,  &c,  &c.  li  you  can 
express  the  women  inside  without  showing,  as  by 
a  fluttering  veil,  a  delicate  arm,  or  so  forth  ap- 
pearing at  the  half-closed  window  —  so  much  the 
better." 

Again  he  writes: 

"  Firstly.  Will  you  design  upon  a  block  of 
wood  Lord  George  Gordon  alone  and  very  solitary 
in  his  prison  in  the  Tower?  The  chamber  as  an- 
cient as  you  please  and  after  your  own  fancy;  the 
time,  evening;  the  season,  summer. 

"  Secondly.  Will  you  ditto  upon  ditto,  a  sword 
duel  between  Mr.  Haredale  and  Mr.  Chester,  in  a 
grove  of  trees?"  (Then  follows  a  graphic  de- 
scription of  the  duel.) 

"  Thirdly.  Will  you  conceive  and  execute,  after 
your  own  fashion,  a  frontispiece  for  *  Barnaby '  ? 

"  Fourthly.  Will  you  also  devise  a  subject 
representing  *  Master  Humphrey's  Clock '  as 
stopped ;  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  empty ;  his  crutch 
against  the  wall ;  his  slippers  on  the  cold  hearth ; 


I64  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

his  hat  upon  the  chair  back ;  the  MSS.  of  '  Barnaby  ' 
and  '  The  Curiosity  Shop '  heaped  upon  the  table ; 
and  the  flowers  you  introduced  in  the  first  subject 
of  all,  withered  and  dead?  Master  Humphrey  be- 
ing supposed  to  be  no  more." 

So  we  see,  by  these  fragments  from  the  letters, 
of  what  help  he  was  to  the  men  who  worked  for 
him  and  how  his  imagination  colored  theirs. 

Concerning  the  other  historical  novel,  "  A  Tale 
of  Two  Cities,"  written,  as  we  know,  nearly 
twenty  years  after  "  Barnaby,"  there  seems  to  be 
one  general  opinion  —  that  it  is  Dickens's  master- 
piece. Dickens,  the  man,  had  lived  through  much 
in  the  interim ;  his  children  —  nine  living  ones  — 
had  sprung  up  about  him;  he  was  a  man  of 
consequence  and  of  established  fame;  the  great 
acknowledged  his  greatness;  the  small  looked  up 
to  him.  He  had  only  to  place  about  the  guillotine 
and  the  Terror  and  the  Revolutionary  mob  his 
own  dramatic  version,  to  make  this  masterpiece, 
and  who  was  better  fitted  to  do  this  thing  than 
he! 

No  title  more  appropriate  could  have  been  chosen 
for  a  story  — "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  " —  Paris  and 
London  —  always  London  in  every  tale  he  wrote 
—  never  Paris  before.  He  read  Carlyle's  French 
Revolution,  he  saw  Carlyle's  Paris,  and  he  wrote 
about  it  in  Dickens's  style,  with  the  result  that  to 
the  girls  of  the  present  day  Carlyle's  French  Revo- 
lution is  comparatively  unknown,  while  Dickens's 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       165 

"  Tale  of  Two  Cities "  still  holds  and  enthralls 
them. 

Girls  turn  naturally  to  heroism;  so  Sydney  Car- 
ton —  sinner  though  he  is  —  appeals  to  them  in 
the  grand  climax  of  the  story.  To  be  willing  to 
die  as  he  did  —  to  be  able  to  rise  to  such  a  height, 
seems  to  them  the  highest  goal  of  greatness.  Jus- 
tice or  injustice  dealt  death  in  "  Barnaby  Rudge," 
but  it  was  ignominious  death  —  the  death  of  the 
rabble  for  a  lost  cause  —  while  gentlemen  died  in 
Paris  for  no  cause  at  all. 

There  was  only  one  girl  in  the  whole  story, 
Lucie  Manette,  a  strangely  white,  pure  figure  flit- 
ting through  the  horror  of  the  times,  very  young 
and  very  lovely.  She  was  only  seventeen  when 
the  story  opens,  and  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  met  her  in 
Dover.  When  he  saw  her  first  she  was  standing 
"  in  a  riding  cloak  and  still  holding  her  straw  travel- 
ling hat  by  its  ribbon  in  her  hand.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  a  short,  slight,  pretty  figure,  a  quantity 
of  golden  hair,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  that  met  his  own 
with  an  inquiring  look,  and  a  forehead  with  a 
singular  capacity  (remembering  how  young  and 
smooth  it  was)  of  lifting  and  knitting  itself  into 
an  expression  that  was  not  quite  one  of  perplexity, 
or  wonder,  or  alarm,  or  merely  of  a  bright  fixed 
attention,  though  it  included  all  the  four  expres- 
sions —  as  his  eyes  rested  on  these  things,  a  sud- 
den vivid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a  child 

whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across 
12 


l66  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

that  very  channel  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail 
drifted  heavily,  and  the  sea  ran  high." 

Such  was  Lucie  Manette,  and  all  through  her 
many  trials  we  meet  the  bright  presence.  Like  all 
of  Dickens's  choice  young  heroines,  she  was  small, 
and  even  twenty  years  or  more  had  not  the  power 
to  make  the  author  forget  that  Mary  Hogarth  died 
at  the  age  of  seventeen. 

It  is  beautiful  to  see  how,  through  all  his  triumph, 
Dickens  honored  the  memory  of  this  dead  girl. 
There  is  scarcely  one  among  the  many  girls  whom 
he  has  made  his  heroines  who  does  not  in  some  way 
bear  resemblance  to  this  ideal  of  his. 

Lucie's  companion  —  the  background  against 
which  her  fair  young  figure  stood  out  in  bright 
relief  —  was  a  tall,  spare  woman  by  the  name  of 
Miss  Pross.  "  A  wild-looking  woman,  whom  even 
in  his  agitation,  Mr.  Lorry  observed  to  be  all  of 
a  red  color,  and  to  have  red  hair,  and  to  be  dressed 
in  some  extraordinary  tight-fitting  fashion,  and  to 
have  on  her  head  a  most  wonderful  bonnet  like  a 
Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  a  good  measure, 
too,  or  a  great  Stilton  Cheese,  came  running  into 
the  room  in  advance  of  the  inn  servants  [Mr. 
Lorry  had  called  for  help,  for  Lucie  was  in  a 
faint],  and  soon  settled  the  question  of  his  detach- 
ment from  the  poor  young  lady  by  laying  a  brawny 
hand  upon  his  chest,  and  sending  him  flying  back 
against  the  nearest  wall. 

"  *  I  really  think  this  must  be  a  man! '  was  Mr^ 


DICKENS  AND  THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL.       167 

Lorry's  breathless  reflection,  simultaneously  with 
his  coming  against  the  wall." 

Aliss  Pross  was  not  a  man,  but  a  gentle,  tender 
woman  when  the  time  came  for  gentleness  and 
tenderness  —  a  man  only  when  it  came  to  saving 
her  young  mistress  from  the  clutches  of  the  guil- 
lotine; none  but  Dickens  could  have  drawn  such 
a  character,  such  a  mixture  of  fun  and  pathos,  of 
sentiment  and  common-sense !  In  truth,  Miss 
Pross  will  live  with  many  another  spinster  of  his 
drawing,  only  this  one  had  a  heart  of  gold. 

But  we  are  looking  twenty  years  ahead  at  this 
"  Tale  of  Two  Cities."  After  the  writing  of 
*'  Barnaby  Rudge,"  the  author's  restless  mind  was 
filled  with  quite  another  vision.  Murmurs  had 
reached  him  from  America  —  invitations  had 
poured  in  upon  him.  His  natural  vanity  had  been 
touched  only  recently  by  a  triumphal  visit  to  Scot- 
land, with  his  wife.  We  must  remember  that  he 
had  the  soul  of  the  people,  he  had  done  good  work, 
but  he  loved  above  all  things  —  praise  and  acclama- 
tion. The  Americans  were  calling  him  and  so  — 
he  went  to  America. 


PART  III. 
THE  BOOKS  THAT  MADE  THE  MAN. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DICKENS    AND    AMERICA. 

N  December  i6,  1841,  Dickens  wrote  the 
following  letter  from  Devonshire  Terrace 
to  little  Mary  Talfourd,  a  daughter  of 
one  of  his  most  intimate  friends: 


''  My  dear  Mary : 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to  come  and  dine  with 
you  on  your  birthday  and  be  as  merry  as  I  wish  you 
to  be  always ;  but  as  I  am  going  within  a  few  days 
afterward,  a  very  long  distance  from  home,  and 
shall  not  see  any  of  my  children  [he  had  four 
then  —  two  girls  and  two  boys]  for  six  long 
months,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  pass  all  that 
week  at  home  for  their  sakes;  just  as  you  would 
like  your  papa  and  mamma  to  spend  all  the  time 
they  could  possibly  spare  with  you,  if  they  were 
about  to  make  a  dreary  voyage  to  America;  which 
is  what  I  am  going  to  do  myself. 

"  But,  though  I  cannot  come  to  see  you  on  that 
day,  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  forget  that  it  is 
your  birthday,  and  that  I  shall  drink  your  health 
and  many  happy  returns  in  a  glass  of  wine,  filled 

171 


172  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

as  full  as  it  will  hold.  And  I  shall  dine  at  half- 
past  five  myself,  so  that  we  may  both  be  drinking 
our  wine  at  the  same  time;  and  I  shall  tell  my 
Mary  (for  I  have  got  a  daughter  of  the  same  name, 
but  she  is  a  very  small  one  as  yet)  to  drink  your 
health,  too,  and  we  shall  try  and  make  believe  that 
you  are  here,  or  that  we  are  in  Russell  Square, 
which  is  the  best  thing  we  can  do,  I  think,  under 
the  circumstances. 

"  You  are  growing  up  so  fast  that  by  the  time  I 
come  home  again,  I  expect  you  will  be  almost  a 
woman;  and  in  a  very  few  years  we  shall  be  say- 
ing to  each  other,  *  Don't  you  remember  what  the 
birthdays  used  to  be  in  Russell  Square  ?  '  and  *  How 
strange  it  seems ! '  and  *  How  quickly  time  passes ! ' 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  But  I  shall 
always  be  very  glad  to  be  asked  on  your  birthday, 
and  to  come  if  you  will  let  me,  and  to  send  my  love 
to  you,  and  to  wish  that  you  may  live  to  be  very 
old  and  very  happy,  which  I  do  now  with  all  my 
heart. 

*'  Believe  me  always, 
"  My  dear  Mary, 
"  Yours   affectionately, 
"  Charles  Dickens." 

Truly  a  charming  letter  from  a  busy  man  to  a 
little  girl  of  whom  he  must  have  been  very  fond, 
and  she  must  have  been  quite  accustomed  to  his 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  173 

signature,    for  it  was  very  queer  and  not   at   all 
readable,  with  a  great  big  flourish  beneath  it. 

His  four  children,  Charles,  Mary,  Kate,  and 
Walter  Landor,  a  baby  boy  not  more  than  a  year 
old,  were  left  in  the  care  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
ready  (the  famous  actor  and  his  wife),  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dickens  and  their  maid,  Anne,  sailed 
from  Liverpool  on  January  4,  1842,  on  the  steam- 
ship Britannia,  followed  by  the  good  wishes  and 
hearty  farewells  of  many  friends.  Thomas  Hood, 
the  poet  and  humorist,  composed  a  couple  of  clever 
verses  to  express  his  sentiments : 

Pshaw  !  away  with  leaf  and  berry, 

And  the  sober-sided  cup ! 
Bring  a  Goblet,  and  bright  Sherry ! 

And  a  bumper  fill  me  up. 
Tho'  I  had  a  pledge  to  shiver, 

And  the  largest  ever  was, 
Ere  his  vessel  leaves  our  river, 

I  will  drink  a  health  to  Boz ! 

Here's  success  to  all  his  antics, 

Since  it  pleases  him  to  roam. 
And  to  paddle  o'er  Atlantics, 

After  such  a  sale  at  home ! 
May  he  shun  all  rocks  whatever. 

And  the  shallow  sand  that  lurks, 
And  the  Passage  be  as  clever 

As  the  best  among  his  works  ! 

We  must  not   forget  that  a  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic  seventy  years  ago  was  not  only   fraught 


174  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

with  considerable  danger  in  the  winter  time,  but 
usually  took  about  three  weeks  to  accomplish. 
The  Britannia,  being  an  excellent  ship,  sighted  land 
on  the  eighteenth  day  out  from  Liverpool,  after  an 
exceptionally  stormy  voyage. 

The  Britannia  was  a  Cunard  liner  carrying  only 
about  seventy  passengers,  which  was  considered 
quite  a  wonderful  number;  but,  when  we  compare 
those  early  ships  with  the  ocean  palaces  now  afloat, 
w^e  wonder  at  the  ideas  of  comfort  in  those  days. 
Dickens  wrote  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Mitton, 
just  before  sailing  from  Liverpool: 

"  My  dear  Mitton  : 

"  This  is  a  short  note,  but  I  will  fulfil  the  adage 
and  make  it  a  merry  one. 

"  We  came  down  in  great  comfort.  Our  lug- 
gage is  now  aboard.  Anything  so  utterly  and 
monstrously  absurd  as  the  size  of  our  cabin,  *  no 
gentleman  of  England  who  lives  at  home  at  ease ' 
can  for  a  moment  imagine.  Neither  of  the 
portmanteaus  would  go  into  it.  There!  These 
Cunard  packets  are  not  very  big  you  know  actually, 
but  the  quantity  of  sleeping-berths  makes  them 
much  smaller,  so  that  the  saloon  is  not  nearly  so 
large  as  in  one  of  the  Ramsgate  boats.  The  ladies' 
cabin  is  so  close  to  ours  that  I  could  knock  the  door 
without  getting  off  something  they  call  my  bed,  but 
which  I  believe  to  be  a  muffin  beaten  flat.  This  is 
a  great  comfort,  for  it  is  an  excellent  room   (the 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  175 

only  good  one  in  the  ship)  ;  and  if  there  be  only  one 
other  lady  besides  Kate,  as  the  stewardess  thinks, 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  sit  there  very  often. 

"  They  talk  of  seventy  passengers,  but  I  can't 
think  there  will  be  so  many ;  they  talk  besides  (which 
is  even  more  to  the  purpose)  of  a  very  fine  passage, 
having  had  a  noble  one  this  time  last  year.  God 
send  it  so!  We  are  in  the  best  spirits  and  full  of 
hope.  I  was  dashed  for  a  moment  when  I  saw  our 
*  cabin,'  but  I  got  over  that  directly  and  laughed 
so  much  at  its  ludicrous  proportions  that  you  might 
have  heard  me  all  over  the  ship." 

"  That  this  state-room,"  Dickens  tells  us  in  his 
"  American  Notes,"  "  had  been  especially  engaged 
for  *  Charles  Dickens  Esquire,  and  Lady  '  was  ren- 
dered sufficiently  clear,  even  to  my  seared  intellect, 
by  a  very  small  manuscript  announcing  the  fact, 
which  was  pinned  on  a  very  flat  quilt,  covering  a 
very  thin  mattress,  spread  like  a  surgical  plaster 
on  a  most  inaccessible  shelf." 

These  innocent,  comfortable  English  folk,  fond 
of  lounging  and  taking  their  ease  when  it  was  time 
to  rest,  had  built  a  regular  castle-in-the-air  concern- 
ing the  possibilities  of  a  steamer  "  cabin  " —  but  this 
little  hole  in  the  ship  w^as  rather  overwhelming; 
yet  it  was  the  very  best  cabin  in  the  very  fastest 
steamer  that  plied  the  ocean. 

The  voyage  across  was  rough,  and  there  were 
many  times   when  the   vessel   and   the   passengers 


176  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

were  in  grave  danger ;  the  sea  was  high,  and  every- 
thing was  pitching  and  tumbling  before  they  had 
been  out  a  day.  "  Two  passengers'  wives  (one  of 
them  my  own)  lay  already  in  silent  agonies  on  the 
sofa;  and  one  lady's  maid  {my  lady's)  was  a  mere 
bundle  on  the  floor  —  execrating  her  destiny  and 
pounding  her  curl-papers  among  the  stray  boxes. 
Everything  sloped  the  wrong  way.  ...  I  had 
left  the  door  open  in  the  bosom  of  a  gentle  declivity, 
and  when  I  turned  to  shut  it,  it  was  on  the  summit 
of  a  lofty  eminence.'' 

Indeed,  the  ship  rocked  so  that  Dickens  was 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  his  bed,  occasionally  stag- 
gering upon  deck  to  get  a  breath  of  air  —  never 
sick,  but  always  on  the  verge.  He  says  of  sea- 
sickness :  "  My  own  opinion  is  that  whether  one  is 
discreet  or  indiscreet  (in  eating)  ...  on  the 
eve  of  a  sea  voyage,  is  a  matter  of  little  consequence, 
and  that  to  use  a  common  phrase  — '  it  comes  to 
very  much  the  same  thing  in  the  end.'  " 

On  the  third  morning  out  at  sea,  they  shipped 
volumes  of  water  in  their  cabin,  and  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  everything  turned  upside-down.  He 
writes : 

"  I  am  awakened  out  of  my  sleep  by  a  dismal 
shriek  from  my  wife,  who  demands  to  know  whether 
there's  any  danger.  I  rouse  myself  and  look  out 
of  bed.  The  water  jug  is  plunging  and  leaping 
like  a  lively  dolphin;  all  the  smaller  articles  are 
afloat  except  my  shoes,  which  are  stranded  on  a 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  177 

carpet-bag,  high  and  dry  like  a  couple  of  coal- 
barges.  Suddenly  I  see  them  spring  into  the  air, 
and  behold  the  looking-glass,  which  is  nailed  to  the 
wall,  sticking  fast  upon  the  ceiling.  At  the  same 
time  the  door  entirely  disappears  and  a  new  one 
is  opened  in  the  floor.  Then  I  begin  to  compre- 
hend that  the  state-room  is  standing  on  its  head." 

Such  pitching  could  not  occur  in  these  days.  The 
vessels  are  planned  more  with  an  eye  to  personal 
comfort.  There  are  no  water-jugs  to  play  queer 
pranks,  and  the  steamship  of  to-day  may  well  be 
named  the  ocean  greyhound,  so  rapidly  and  with 
such  little  motion  does  she  travel. 

But  the  mere  discomforts  of  a  rolling  ship  were 
as  nothing  compared  with  the  heavy  winds  and 
gales  which  at  times  threatened  destruction.  So 
terrified  and  unnerved  were  some  of  the  passengers 
that  even  when  land  was  sighted  they  refused  to 
believe  it  —  thinking  that  they  were  shipwrecked 
and  the  officers  were  afraid  to  tell  them;  it  was 
only  when  one  of  the  boats  brought  back  a  tall 
young  tree,  plucked  up  by  the  roots,  that  they 
calmed  down  and  seemed  satisfied. 

They  stopped  at  Halifax  first  to  deliver  the  mail, 
and  then  they  pushed  on  for  Boston  harbor,  which 
they  entered  on  Januar)^  22,  thanks  to  the  gallant 
handling  of  the  ship  by  Captain  Hewett.  On  the 
day  before  landing,  the  passengers  —  headed  by 
the  Earl  of  Mulgrave  and  Charles  Dickens  —  ten- 
dered him  a  public  testimonial,  and  a  subscription 


178  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

was  raised  for  a  piece  of  plate,  to  be  inscribed  with 
the  lasting  gratitude  of  the  passengers,  and  as  a 
tribute  to  his  nautical  skill. 

From  the  moment  he  set  foot  in  America,  Dick- 
ens was  the  center  of  the  most  overwhelming 
enthusiasm  and  hospitality.  From  city  to  city  his 
was  a  progress  of  triumph.  Even  sovereigns  could 
not  have  commanded  greater  public  notice.  Crowds 
followed  his  carriage,  crowds  cheered  him  in  the 
theaters.  They  gave  him  public  dinners  and  balls, 
they  entertained  him  privately,  he  had  the  freedom 
of  the  towns.  In  short,  we  Americans,  always 
prone  to  overdo  things,  would  have  spoiled  the 
best  in  Dickens,  had  he  been  just  an  ordinary  man ; 
but  fortunately  his  stay  in  Boston  brought  him  in 
contact  with  some  of  the  best  minds  in  the  coun- 
try, and  his  own  mind  —  always  on  the  alert  for 
information  —  sought  out  those  things  in  the  big 
city  which  best  ministered  to  the  wants  of  the 
people. 

First  among  the  places  he  visited  was  the  Massa- 
chusetts Asylum  for  the  Blind,  in  which  he  took  a 
keen  interest.  Laura  Bridgman  —  the  famous 
blind  girl  who  was  also  deprived  of  hearing,  taste, 
and  smell  —  was  in  the  institution  at  the  time,  her 
wonderful  mind  expanding  under  Dr.  Howe's  care- 
ful treatment. 

Dickens  was  much  interested  in  this  girl,  and  also 
in  a  boy  affected  in  the  same  way,  and  whom  good 
Dr.  Howe,  with  Laura  Bridgman's  assistance,  was 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  179 

leading  along  the  same  path.  This  sort  of  thing 
impressed  a  mind  like  Dickens's  —  always  sensitive 
to  every  human  need  and  affliction.  What  would 
he  have  said  had  he  been  here  to-day  to  see  Helen 
Keller  and  hear  of  the  magic  accomplished  in  her 
case,  and  to  know  the  lovely  spirit  of  the  girl,  and 
to  read  her  wonderful  book ! 

Dickens  was  only  seeing  America  in  its  child- 
hood, it  had  enjoyed  but  a  little  over  half  a  century 
of  independence.  Many  of  its  people  had  been 
pioneers  in  virgin  countries,  and  many  little  rough- 
nesses of  pioneer  life  still  clung  to  them.  He  for- 
got this  in  writing  his  "  American  Notes,"  and  his 
pointed  allusions  to  the  "  typical  American  "  gave 
serious  offense.  He  seemed  to  forget,  too,  that 
he  had  been  the  honored  guest  of  these  people,  and 
would  have  been  horrified  had  anyone  suggested 
that  he  had  abused  their  hospitality.  But  such  was 
the  case ;  he  criticized  them  at  every  point  —  from 
the  way  they  chewed  tobacco  to  the  way  they  treated 
their  slaves.  The  question  of  slavery  was  begin- 
ning to  burn  fiercely  between  the  North  and  the 
South ;  but  Dickens,  as  an  outsider  and  an  English- 
man to  boot,  unwisely  "  put  his  finger  in  the  pie." 
So  it  was  natural  that  both  sides  resented  his  inter- 
ference in  the  quarrel.  There  were  besides  unflat- 
tering criticisms  on  many  other  subjects  which 
might  have  been  left  unsaid.  He  himself  says  in 
closing  the  book: 

"  I  have  little  reason  to   believe,    from  certain 


l8o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

warnings  I  have  had  since  I  returned  to  England, 
that  it  (the  book)  will  be  tenderly  or  favorably 
received  by  the  American  people;  and  as  I  have 
written  the  Truth  in  relation  to  the  mass  of  those 
who  form  their  judgments  and  express  their  opin- 
ions, it  will  be  seen  that  I  have  no  desire  to  court 
.     .     .     the  popular  applause." 

There  was  much  praise  given  in  his  book  to  our 
public  institutions,  and  our  best  and  brightest  public 
men  clustered  around  him.  But  for  years  Amer- 
ican people  resented  his  coming  among  them  as  he 
did,  and  taking  back  with  him  some  very  warped 
ideas,  which  he  published  as  typical  facts. 

Niagara  impressed  him  more  than  anything  he 
saw.  He  paints  the  greatness  and  the  splendor  of 
it  as  only  his  pen  can  paint.  His  eyes  saw  every- 
thing, but  he  tells  us  humorously  that  Anne,  their 
stolid  maid,  he  verily  believed,  never  even  saw  an 
American  tree.  "  She  never  looks  at  a  prospect 
by  any  chance,  or  displays  the  smallest  emotion  at 
any  sight  whatever.  She  objects  to  Niagara  that 
*  it's  nothing  but  water,'  and  considers  that  *  there 
is  too  much  of  that.'  " 

At  Montreal  he  had  a  queer  experience;  in  a 
letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  Henry  Austin,  he  says : 

"  I  suppose  you  have  heard  that  I  am  going  to 
act  at  the  Montreal  theater  with  the  officers? 
Farce-books  being  scarce,  I  have  selected  Keeley's 
part  in  *  Two  O'clock  in  the  Morning.'  I  wrote 
yesterday  to   Mitchell,  the  actor  and  manager  at 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  l8l 

New  York,  to  get  and  send  me  a  comic  wig,  light 
flaxen,  with  a  small  whisker  half-way  down  the 
cheek;  over  this  I  mean  to  wear  two  night-caps, 
one  wath  a  tassel  and  one  of  flannel ;  a  flannel 
wrapper,  drab  tights  and  slippers  will  complete  the 
costume." 

There  were  two  other  farces  the  same  night,  ''  A 
Roland  for  an  Oliver  "  and  "  Deaf  as  a  Post  " — 
in  each  of  which  Dickens  took  a  prominent  part. 

He  was  boyishly  proud  of  himself  over  this  ex- 
ploit, assuming,  besides,  the  stage  management  of 
the  entire  entertainment,  and  acting  so  well  in  the 
comedy  roles  assigned  to  him  that  the  packed  the- 
ater was  in  a  roar  from  beginning  to  end.  Even 
Mrs.  Dickens  was  induced  to  take  part  in  the  per- 
formance, and  Dickens  admitted  that  she  played 
remarkably  well. 

There  was  one  serious  object  which  Dickens  had 
in  view  from  the  time  he  first  considered  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  visit  to  America.  He  wished  to  strike 
a  blow  for  a  copyright  law  which  would  protect 
writers  on  both  sides  of  the  ocean.  In  a  famous 
speech  delivered  in  New  York,  he  expressed  himself 
very  plainly,  and  created  much  excitement.  For, 
having  suffered  from  the  pirates  at  home,  he  canie 
down  upon  all  such  offenders  with  needless  severity, 
though  many  of  his  views  were  upheld  by  the  best 
Americans  in  the  country,  and  by  the  most  notable 
men  in  England. 

In  those  six  months  of  travel,  there  was  no  phase 
13 


l82  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

of  American  life,  North,  East,  South  or  West, 
which  escaped  this  traveler's  notice.  So  much  was 
crowded  into  the  busy  days  and  still  busier  nights 
that  when  the  prospect  of  home  and  children  began 
to  loom  in  sight,  the  hungry  father  and  mother 
could  hardly  wait  for  the  happy  day  of  sailing. 

They  took  passage  for  England  in  the  George 
Washington,  sailing  from  New  York  on  June  7, 
and  three  tired,  happy  people  were  on  deck  as  she 
swung  out  of  the  harbor,  the  young  novelist  and 
his  wife,  and  the  stolid,  imperturbable  Anne,  who 
had  gone  through  the  trial  without  the  crack  of  an 
accidental  smile. 

There  was  an  addition  to  the  party  in  the  shape 
of  a  small  dog,  which  his  friend  Mitchell  had  been 
rearing  for  him,  having  christened  him  "  Boz." 
He  was  a  white  Havana  spaniel,  and,  from  the  time 
of  his  first  voyage,  always  accompanied  the  family 
on  their  many  jaunts.  He  died  at  last  of  extreme 
old  age.  When  safe  in  England,  Dickens  rechris- 
tened  him  "  Mr.  Snittle  Timbery  " —  and  he  was 
thereafter  known  by  the  abbreviated  name  of 
"  Timber."  Dickens,  whose  fondness  for  dogs 
was  celebrated,  soon  had  him  in  training,  and  he 
was  at  an  early  age  taught  to  jump  over  a  stick  at 
word  of  command,  besides  performing  other  and 
more  wonderful  feats. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  over  the  return  of  the 
wanderers.  No  one  knew  the  exact  date  of  their 
expected   coming,   so,   when   the  party  walked   in 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  183 

Upon  their  family,  one  of  the  boys  was  so  shocked 
with  the  surprise  and  joy  of  meeting  that  he  fell 
into  the  most  alarming  convulsions,  though  up  to 
that  time  he  had  been  in  perfect  health.  He  soon 
recovered,  however,  as  Dickens  writes  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend.  How  he  enjoyed  those  days  of  re- 
union with  his  children!  He  was  a  perfect  boy 
among  them,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  invent 
new  nicknames  for  each  one. 

In  a  postscript  of  a  letter  to  his  brother-in-law, 
Henry  Au'stin,  he  writes : 

"  The  children's  present  names  are  as  follows : 

"  Katey  (from  a  lurking  propensity  to  fieryness) 
Lucifer  Box. 

"  Mamey  (as  generally  descriptive  of  her  bear- 
ing)   Mild  Glo'ster. 

"Charley  (as  a  corruption  of  Master  Toby) 
Flaster  Floby. 

"Walter  (suggested  by  his  high  cheek-bones) 
Young  Skull.  Each  is  pronounced  with  a  peculiar 
howl  which  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  illus- 
trating." 

Dickens  brought  back  from  the  new  w^orld  many 
pleasant  memories  and  warm  friendships.  Fore- 
most among  his  friends  were  Washington  Irving 
and  Professor  Felton,  Bryant,  Halleck,  Dana,  also 
a  host  of  others  in  every  walk  of  life,  for  Dickens 
from  early  boyhood  was  a  cordial,  genial  soul  and 
of  a  cheerful  temper  that  made  friends  at  every 
turn. 


l84  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Now  that  he  was  safe  at  home,  his  mind  once 
more  became  absorbed  in  his  writing.  "  American 
Notes "  were  pubHshed  in  1842.  He  was  then 
ready  for  a  larger  task,  and  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit " 
began  to  take  shape.  It  took  a  long  time  to  grow, 
the  title  being  the  hardest  thing  to  decide.  He 
thought  of  Martin  instantly  but  hesitated  over  half 
a  dozen  surnames,  selecting  Chuzzleimt  at  last.  It 
was  issued  in  twenty  monthly  parts,  and  on  the 
original  wrappers  this  inscription  appears : 

"  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Martin  Chuzzle- 
Avit,  his  Relatives,  Friends  and  Enemies,  comprising 
all  his  Wills  and  his  Ways ;  with  an  Historical  Rec- 
ord of  What  he  Did,  and  What  he  Didn't ;  showing, 
moreover,  Who  inherited  the  Family  Plate,  Who 
came  in  for  the  Silver  Spoons,  and  Who  for  the 
Wooden  Ladles.  The  Whole  forming  a  Complete 
Key  to  the  House  of  Chuzzlewit.  Edited  by  *  Boz,' 
With  Illustrations  by  *  Phiz/  " 

The  book  came  out  in  twenty  monthly  numbers, 
l:>eginning  January,  1843,  the  final  double  number 
appearing  in  July,  1844.  The  book,  besides  being 
an  interesting  story,  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  the 
creation  of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  one  of  the  most  delight- 
fully real  old  hypocrites  that  the  world  has  ever 
known.  It  was  even  hinted  that  the.  gentleman 
bore  a  marked  resemblance  to  Sir  Robert  Peel,  the 
eminent  English  statesman,  though  many  found  a 
distinct  likeness  to  Samuel  Carter  Hall,  editor  of 
the  Art  Journal,  who  was  always  pompously  appeal- 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  185 

ing  to  hand,  head,  and  heart,  which  Punch  took  up 
in  a  spirit  of  fun  and  paraphrased  into  ''  gloves, 
hat,  and  waistcoat/' 

The  story  is  called  "  Martin  Chuzlzewit  "  because 
Dickens  always  felt  the  need  of  a  young  hero  around 
whom  to  weave  a  network  of  events  dipping  far 
back  into  the  past.  Martin  was  a  young  fellow 
with  few  friends  in  the  world,  but  circumstances 
and  Mr.  Pecksniff  caught  him  in  their  toils  and 
made  a  man  of  him.  The  history  of  the  Chiiszlewit 
family  is  far  from  fair,  their  record  far  from  clean ; 
yet  Martin  seems  free  from  all  outward  taint — • 
unless  it  were  that  of  selfishness. 

A  host  of  substantial  figures  pass  before  us  in 
the  reading  of  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit/'  all  in  a  certain 
way  suggesting  some  vice  or  virtue. 

First,  of  course,  are  Mr.  Pecksniff  and  his  two 
daughters.  Charity  and  Mercy,  named  after  the 
cardinal  virtues,  which  Mr.  Pecksniff  was  supposed 
to  possess  —  called  in  playfulness  by  their  parent, 
Cherry  and  Merry.  Miss  Cherry  interests  us  not 
at  all ;  she  was  a  young  woman  who  was  born  old  — 
probably  she  was  in  her  early  twenties  when  Martin 
was  first  introduced  to  the  Misses  Pecksniff  —  but 
she  was  one  of  those  gaunt  females  of  whom  Dick- 
ens loved  to  make  caricatures,  and  at  whose  age 
one  could  make  no  possible  guess. 

But  not  so  laughing  little  Merry,  with  the  clus- 
tering curls.  She  was  the  sunshine  of  the  House 
of  Pecksniff,  which,  by  the  way,  was  distantly  re- 


l86  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

lated  to  the  House  of  Chiizzlewit.  She  had  plump 
white  shoulders,  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  vivacious 
manner,  that  for  so  young  a  girl  seemed  almost 
unnatural.  She  was  probably  not  more  than  seven- 
teen, and  all  her  little  affectations  of  manner  made 
her  seem  even  younger  than  she  was. 

Cherry  was  supposed  to  represent  the  calmness 
of  wisdom  in  the  Pecksniff  household;  Merry  was 
the  little  bubbling  fountain  of  youth,  irrepressible, 
laughing  always,  whether  it  was  at  Martin  or  Tom 
Pinch  or  that  worst  of  villains,  Jonas  Chuzzlewit, 
whom  fate  had  set  aside  for  her  lord  and  master  — • 
poor  little  Merry!  There  came  a  time  when  she 
did  not  laugh  so  much.  There  is  nothing  more 
pathetic  than  the  slow  crushing  of  the  spirit  of  a 
young  girl.  Merry's  perpetual  laugh  was  very  irri- 
tating when  we  felt  that  it  was  put  on  for  the  occa- 
sion, but  when  she  became  Mrs.  Jonas  Chu::;dezinf 
we  missed  the  pretty  bird-like  airs  and  graces,  and 
it  was  then  that  we  began  to  love  and  feel  sorry 
for  the  Merry  that  had  been. 

Dickens  is  always  most  particular  in  describing 
homes,  and  we  can  tell  at  once,  from  a  peep  into 
the  Pecksniff's  establishment,  what  strained,  unnat- 
ural lives  these  two  girls  must  have  led.  Their 
mother,  poor  soul,  had  gone  early  to  her  reward, 
and  their  father  —  a  canting,  drunken  old  hypo- 
crite—  lived  by  cheating.  He  cajoled  young  men 
to  come  into  his  home  with  the  laudable  purpose 
of  studying  architecture  under  his  guidance.     He 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  187 

charged  them  enormously,  and  if  after  a  certain 
time  they  did  not  happen  to  be  smitten  by  the 
charms  of  either  of  his  daughters,  they  were  turned 
adrift  without  ceremony,  and  certainly  without  the 
substantial  fee  which  the  unsuspecting  pupil  was 
made  to  pay  in  advance. 

In  describing  Mr.  Pecksniff,  Dickens  tells  us: 
"  It  would  be  no  description  of  Mr.  Pecksniff's 
gentleness  of  manner  to  say  that  he  looked  at  this 
moment  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth. 
He  rather  looked  as  if  any  quantity  of  butter  might 
have  been  made  out  of  him,  by  churning  the  milk 
of  human  kindness,  as  it  spouted  upwards  from  his 
heart." 

How  could  girls  brought  up  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere be  real  girls!  They  were  taught  early  to 
play  into  their  father's  hands,  and  when  it  was 
Merry  and  not  Cherry,  whom  the  fascinating  Jonas 
at  last  selected  as  his  wife,  there  was  a  terrible 
scene  between  the  two  loving  sisters.  The  bargain 
was  that  Mr.  Jonas  was  to  bear  off  Miss  Cherry 
as  a  matrimonial  prize,  but  he  liked  "  the  other 
one  "  best,  though  she  laughed  at  him  and  flouted 
him,  and  tossed  her  curls  coquettishly. 

There  was  another  girl  in  the  book,  sweet  Ruth 
Pinch,  and  here  we  have  one  of  the  dearest  girls 
in  story.  She  was  a  very  old-fashioned  girl  —  was 
little  Ruth  Pinch,  and  proud  and  happy  when  fate 
threw  her  and  her  dearly-loved  Brother  Tom 
together  in  grimy  old  London.     What  matter  that 


l88  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

they  had  both  lost  their  positions;  they  had  each 
other,  and  youth,  and  health,  and  both  had  perfect 
dispositions  with  the  power  to  make  everyone  happy 
w^ith  whom  they  came  in  contact. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Ruth  flying  around  their 
poor  little  home,  doing  a  hundred  little  girlish  things 
to  make  it  seem  like  home,  and  looking  withal  so 
distractingly  pretty  that  Tom,  unaccustomed  to 
anything  better  than  Mr.  Pecksniff's  daughters, 
followed  her  about  delightedly,  and  it  was  the 
simplest  thing  that  big  John  Westlock  should  fall 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  her  the  moment  he 
saw  her. 

It  was  a  pretty  pastoral  romance  in  the  heart 
of  a  busy  city,  though  for  a  long  time  it  seemed 
uncertain  which  little  Ruth  loved  best,  Brother  Tom 
or  John  Westlock.  Every  afternoon  Ruth  was  on 
hand  to  meet  her  brother  and  walk  with  him  through 
the  Fountain  Court,  that  is,  when  Tom  found  a 
position,  which  he  did  without  delay,  but  on  one 
occasion,  "  either  she  was  a  little  too  soon,  or  Tom 
was  a  little  too  late  —  she  was  so  precise  in  general 
that  she  timed  it  to  half  a  minute  —  but  no  Tom 
was  there.  Well!  But  was  anybody  else  there 
that  she  blushed  so  deeply  after  looking  round,  and 
tripped  off  down  the  steps  with  such  unusual  expe- 
dition? 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  that  Mr.  Westlock  was  pass- 
ing at  that  moment.  The  Temple  is  a  public  thor- 
oughfare    .     .     .     and  Mr.  Westlock  had  as  good 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  189 

a  right  to  be  there  as  anybody  else.  But  why  did 
she  run  away  then?  Not  being  ill-dressed,  for  she 
was  much  too  neat  for  that,  why  did  she  run  away  ? 
The  brown  hair  that  had  fallen  down  beneath  her 
bonnet,  and  had  one  impertinent  imp  of  a  flower 
clinging  to  it,  boastful  of  its  license  before  all  men, 
that  could  not  have  been  the  cause,  for  it  looked 
charming.  Oh!  foolish,  panting,  frightened  little 
heart,  why  did  she  run  away! 

"...  merrily  the  tiny  fountain  played,  and 
merrily  the  dimples  sparkled  on  its  sunny  face. 
John  Westlock  hurried  after  her.  Softly  the  whis- 
pering water  broke  and  fell,  and  roguishly  the  dim- 
ples twinkled,  as  he  stole  upon  her  footsteps. 

"  Oh,  foolish,  panting,  timid  little  heart,  why  did 
she  feign  to  be  unconscious  of  his  coming?  Why 
wish  herself  so  far  away,  yet  be  so  flutteringly 
happy  there !  " 

No  prettier  love-making  has  Dickens  ever  writ- 
ten. The  truth  was,  he  himself  fell  in  love  with 
every  pretty,  dainty  little  girl  of  his  creation. 

The  happy  love  of  Ruth  and  John  Westlock,  the 
serene,  beautiful  character  of  Tom  Pinch,  the  bub- 
bling, cheerful  goodness  of  Alark  Tapley,  are  the 
bright  spots  in  a  very  dark  and  somber  tale.  There 
are  certain  humorous  characters  that  we  can  never 
forget.  Sairey  Gamp,  for  instance,  and  Betsey 
Prig,  with  their  fat,  bloated  faces  and  red  noses 
and  ponderous  shapes,  and  the  fictitious  Mrs. 
Harris  —  who    had    no    shape    at    all.     There    is 


190  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Todgers  boarding-house,  where  the  Pecksniffs 
stopped  when  in  London;  there  is  Bailey,  the  dirty 
little  "  boots,"  and  Mr.  Mould,  the  famous  under- 
taker. But  Dickens,  still  smarting  under  American 
displeasure,  sent  young  Martin  and  Mark  Tapley 
to  America,  to  say  some  more  sharp  (and  alas! 
true)  things  about  that  wild,  fever-ridden  country, 
where  the  two  adventurers  found  themselves. 
"  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  it  is  true,  proved  to  be  one  of 
the  author's  greatest  novels,  but  we  cannot  help 
missing  a  certain  sunny  mood  which  crept  through 
even  the  most  serious  of  his  writings. 

He  was  only  thirty-two  on  the  completion  of  the 
story,  but  already  the  cares  of  an  increasing  family 
were  writing  their  lines  upon  his  handsome  face. 
His  third  son  and  fifth  child,  Francis  Jeffreys,  was 
born  in  January,  1844;  the  problem  of  living,  just 
at  that  time,  was  a  serious  one,  for  money  difficul- 
ties were  confronting  him,  and  it  became  necessary 
to  take  his  whole  family  for  a  while  to  the  Conti- 
nent, where  the  cost  of  living  was  so  much  less. 
He  said  to  one  of  his  friends:  "  I  am  quite  serious 
and  sober  when  I  say  that  I  have  very  grave 
thoughts  of  keeping  my  whole  menagerie  in  Italy; 
three  years." 

The  last  number  of  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  was 
finished  in  June,  and  in  July  the  novelist  and  his 
wife,  his  sister-in-law,  and  all  the  children,  like 
little  steps  —  from  sturdy  Charles  to  Baby  Francis 
—  set  out  for  sunny  Italy,  where,  from  a  land  of 


DICKENS  AND  AMERICA.  19^ 

perpetual  summer  and  bright  skies,  went  forth  a 
tale  of  Christmas  — in  dingy  London,  amid  wind 
and  fog  and  hail  and  snow  —  a  tale  which  made  the 
world  wonder,  for  the  hundredth  time,  at  the  magic 
of  his  art. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    CHRISTMAS. 


UITE  a  fat  little  book  might  be  made 
of  all  that  Dickens  has  to  say  about 
Christmas.  The  season  meant  so  much 
to  him  —  his  own  nature  was  so  gener- 
ous in  giving  out  its  light  and  warmth  to  those  who 
lacked  these  things  that  his  mighty  pen  has  written 
of  Christmas  in  a  way  to  be  remembered  through 
all  time. 

"  There  are  people,"  he  writes,  "  who  will  tell 
you  that  Christmas  is  not  to  them  what  it  used 
to  be;  that  each  succeeding  Christmas  has  found 
some  cherished  hope,  or  happy  prospect  of  the  year 
before,  dimmed  or  passed  away.  That  the  present 
only  serves  to  remind  them  ...  of  the  feasts 
they  once  bestowed  on  hollow  friends,  and  of  the 
cold  looks  that  meet  them  now  in  adversity  or  mis- 
fortune. Never  heed  such  dismal  reminiscences. 
.  .  Do  not  select  the  merriest  day  of  the  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  for  your  doleful  recollec- 
tions, but  draw  your  chair  nearer  the  blazing  fire, 
fill  the  glass,  and  send  round  the  song." 

This  is  what  Dickens  always  did  when  he  was 
one  of  the  original  *'  Little  Dickenses,"  when  he  was 

192 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  193 

a  struggling  young  fellow  with  no  hope  beyond  the 
work  nearest  at  hand,  and  now,  when  he  was  the 
famous  father  of  other  "  Little  Dickenses,"  this 
same  Christmas  spirit  was  always  with  him  in  its 
proper  season. 

"  A  Christmas  family  party !  "  he  writes.  "  We 
know  nothing  in  nature  more  delightful.  There 
seems  a  magic  in  the  very  name  of  Christmas. 
Petty  jealousies  and  discords  are  forgotten;  social 
feelings  are  awakened  in  bosoms  to  which  they  have 
long  been  strangers.  .  .  .  Would  that  Christ- 
mas lasted  the  whole  year  through  (as  it  ought)." 

Now,  of  course,  our  good  friend  Charles  Dickens 
was  only  speaking  of  the  spirit  of  Christmas.  To 
be  obliged  to  celebrate  it  every  day,  with  turkey, 
plum-pudding,  and  sweets,  would  not  only  spoil 
one's  digestion  but  would  grow  very  tiresome  into 
the  bargain.  No  girl,  nor  boy,  either,  for  that 
matter,  though  his  appetite  may  be  unfailing,  could 
live  up  to  the  standard  of  Christmas  every  day. 
What  Dickens  really  meant  was  what  he  said  in 
that  wonderful  allegory  called  "  A  Christmas 
Carol " : 

"  I  will  honor  Christmas  in  my  heart.  I  will 
live  in  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future.  The 
Spirits  of  all  Three  shall  strive  within  me,  I  will 
not  shut  out  the  lessons  that  they  teach." 

This  is  the  final  statement  of  the  subdued  and 
chastened  Ehenezer  Scrooge,  who,  before  he  saw 
the  Ghosts  of  Christmas,  was  heard  to  exclaim,  *'  If 


194  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

I  could  work  my  will,  every  idiot  who  goes  about 
with  '  Merry  Christmas  '  on  his  lips  should  be  boiled 
with  his  own  pudding  and  buried  with  a  stake  of 
holly  run  through  his  heart.     He  should !  " 

The  "  Christmas  Carol  "  was  a  story  that  just 
'*  happened."  Dickens  was  deep  in  "  Martin  Chuz- 
zlewit "  at  the  time  it  popped  into  his  head,  and  it 
stayed  there  so  persistently  that  he  could  not  drive 
it  out.  Many  a  night  he  walked  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, traversing  miles  in  a  state  of  restless  excite- 
ment, as  the  beautiful  scheme  of  the  story  unfolded 
itself,  like  the  petals  of  some  perfect  flower.  It 
was  written  in  snatches  between  two  parts  of  *'  Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit,"  begun  in  October  and  finished  by 
the  end  of  November,  1843,  quite  in  time  to  be 
issued  for  the  Christmas  holidays.  Through  "  A 
Christmas  Carol  "  Dickens  became  the  pioneer  of 
the  Christmas  stories.  From  that  time,  fiction 
writers  all  over  the  world  have  taken  the  theme  and 
woven  countless  tales  around  it;  and  every  year 
there  is  a  great  demand  for  such  work  —  such  de- 
mand, indeed,  that  a  Christmas  story  must  be  com- 
pleted many  months  —  even  a  year  or  more  — 
before  publication.  In  Dickens's  case,  however,  it 
was  the  first,  and  his  publishers,  dazzled  by  such 
a  brilliant  experiment,  fairly  rushed  it  into  print. 
Yet,  after  all,  what  is  there  in  the  story  save  a 
man's  battle  with  his  better  self!  But  it  moved  the 
world ;  men  and  women  —  girls  and  boys  —  have 
read  and  taken  the  lesson  to  heart.     The  story  of  a 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  195 

selfish  man  to  whom  Christmas  was  "  Humbug," 
and  all  kindly  joys  and  emotions  were  strangers, 
grew  in  interest  as  the  shadow  of  his  dead  partner 
rose  before  him. 

Marley's  Ghost  was  a  very  sensible  ghost  and 
told  Scrooge  some  wholesome  truths  as  he  sat  there 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  clanking  his  chains 
—  truths  which  are  known  to  us  all,  when  we  have 
time  to  pause  and  think. 

Then  the  Spirit  of  the  Past  came,  and  showed 
him  a  picture  of  the  boy  he  once  was. 

'*  .  .  .  they  passed  through  the  wall  and 
stood  by  an  open  country  road  with  fields  on  either 
hand.  The  city  had  entirely  vanished,  not  a  vestige 
of  it  was  to  be  seen.  The  darkness  and  the  mist 
had  vanished  with  it,  for  it  was  a  clear,  cold  winter 
day,  with  snow  upon  the  ground. 

*'  *  Good  Heavens ! '  said  Scrooge,  clasping  his 
hands  together,  as  he  looked  about  him,  *  I  was  bred 
in  this  place  —  I  was  a  boy  here ! ' 

"...  He  was  conscious  of  a  thousand 
odors  floating  in  the  air,  each  one  connected  with 
a  thousand  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and  joys,  and 
cares  long,  long  forgotten. 

"  They  walked  along  the  road ;  Scrooge  recog- 
nized every  gate,  and  post,  and  tree;  until  a  little 
market-town  appeared  in  the  distance,  with  its 
bridge,  its  church,  and  winding  river.  Some  shaggy 
ponies  were  now  seen  trotting  towards  them,  with 
boys  upon  their  backs,  who  called  to  other  boys  in 


19^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

country  gigs  and  carts,  driven  by  farmers.  All 
these  boys  were  in  great  spirits  and  shouted  to  each 
other,  until  the  broad  fields  were  so  full  of  merry 
music,  that  the  crisp  air  laughed  to  hear  it. 

'*  *  Those  are  but  shadows  of  the  things  that  have 
been,'  said  the  Ghost." 

Then  the  Ghost  showed  Scrooge  a  picture  of  a 
deserted  schoolhouse,  where  a  solitary  child,  neg- 
lected by  his  friends,  was  left  there  at  Christmas 
time.  "  They  went  across  the  hall  to  a  door  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  It  opened  before  them  and  dis- 
closed a  long,  bare,  melancholy  room,  made  barer 
still  by  lines  of  plain  deal  forms  and  desks." 
Scrooge  saw  here  the  little  dream-boy  of  Long  Ago, 
reading  "  The  Arabian  Nights  "  by  the  light  of  a 
feeble  fire,  and  sometimes  it  was  Crusoe  or  Friday, 
or  the  Parrot.  How  well  Scrooge  and  Dickens 
remembered  that  lonely  little  boy. 

Then  came  the  boy's  sister  Fan. 

"  *  I  have  come  to  bring  you  home,  dear  brother ! ' 
said  the  child,  clapping  her  tiny  hands.  *  To  bring 
you  home,  home,  home ! ' 

"  *  Home,  little  Fan  ?  '  returned  the  boy. 

"  *  Yes ! '  said  the  child,  brimful  of  glee.  *  Home 
for  good  and  all.  Home  forever  and  ever.  Fa- 
ther is  so  much  kinder  than  he  used  to  be,  home's 
like  Heaven!  He  spoke  so  gently  to  me  one  dear 
night  when  I  was  going  to  bed,  that  I  was  not  afraid 
to  ask  him  once  more  if  you  might  come  home ;  and 
he  said,  Yes,  you  should,  and  sent  me  in  a  coach  to 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  197 

bring  you.  And  you're  to  be  a  man ! '  said  the  child, 
opening  her  eyes,  *  and  are  never  to  come  back 
here ;  but  first  we're  to  be  together  all  the  Christmas 
long,  and  have  the  merriest  time  in  all  the  world.'  " 

Then  Scrooge  saw  himself  as  a  dashing  young 
clerk,  to  one  jolly  old  Fezziwig,  who  believed  in 
Christmas. 

"  *  Yo  ho,  my  boys ! '  said  Fezziwig.  *  No  more 
work  to-night.  Christmas  Eve,  Dick,  Christmas, 
Ebenezer!  Let's  have  the  shutters  up,'  cried  old 
Fezziwig,  with  a  sharp  clap  of  his  hands,  '  before 
a  man  can  say  Jack  Robinson ! '  " 

They  were  only  'prentice  lads,  but  they  scented 
a  dance  —  and  how  they  worked ! 

"  Clear  away !  There  was  nothing  they  wouldn't 
have  cleared  away,  or  couldn't  have  cleared  away, 
with  old  Fezziwig  looking  on.  It  w^as  done  in  a 
minute.  Every  movable  was  packed  off  as  if  it 
were  dismissed  from  public  life  for  evermore;  the 
floor  was  swept  and  watered,  the  lamps  were 
trimmed,  fuel  was  heaped  upon  the  fire,  and  the 
warehouse  was  as  snug,  and  warm,  and  dry,  and 
bright  a  ball-room  as  you  would  desire  to  see  upon 
a  winter's  night." 

Only  a  dance  for  the  merry  poor  on  this  Christ- 
mas Eve  which  the  Spirit  of  the  Past  was  showing 
to  Scrooge;  but  how  real  it  is,  and  who  but  Dickens 
could  paint  such  a  picture  of  life  and  jollity  and 
motion. 

*'  In  came  a  fiddler  with  a  music-book,  and  went 
14 


198  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

up  to  the  lofty  desk  and  made  an  orchestra  of  it. 
.  .  .  In  came  Mrs.  Fezziwig,  one  vast,  substan- 
tial smile.  In  came  the  three  Miss  Fezziwigs, 
beaming  and  lovable.  In  came  the  six  young  fel- 
lows whose  hearts  they  broke.  In  came  the  young 
men  and  women  employed  in  the  business.  In  came 
the  housemaid  with  her  cousin,  the  baker.  In  came 
the  cook  with  her  brother's  particular  friend,  the 
milkman.  In  came  the  boy  from  over  the  way, 
who  was  suspected  of  not  having  board  enough 
from  his  master,  trying  to  hide  himself  behind  the 
girl  from  next  door  but  one,  who  was  proved  to 
have  had  her  ears  pulled  by  her  mistress.  In  they 
all  came,  one  after  another,  some  slyly,  some  boldly, 
some  gracefully,  some  awkwardly,  some  pushing, 
some  pulling;  in  they  all  came,  anyhow  and  every- 
how." 

Then  away  they  went,  in  a  breathless  whirl  of 
fun  and  laughter.  Our  own  feet  keep  time  as  we 
read,  and  we  feel  the  rhythm  and  swing  of  this  good 
old-fashioned  dance. 

Then  the  lonely  old  man  saw  how  love  had  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  and  the  Spirit  showed  him  a 
picture  of  the  girl  he  might  have  married,  the  wife 
of  another,  a  comely  matron,  with  a  daughter  like 
herself  years  ago.  Here,  too,  it  was  Christmas 
Eve,  in  a  bright  room  with  its  cheerful  winter  fire. 
''  The  noise  in  this  room  was  perfectly  tumultuous, 
for  there  were  more  children  there  than  Scrooge 
in  his  agitated  state  of  mind  could  count;  and,  un- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  199 

like  the  celebrated  herd  in  the  poem,  they  were  not 
forty  children  conducting  themselves  like  one,  but 
every  child  conducting  itself  like  forty." 

How  Dickens  loved  this  noisy,  rollicking  fun  of 
Christmas!  The  coming  of  the  father,  laden  with 
packages,  accompanied  by  a  porter  carrying  more; 
the  shouts  of  wonder  and  delight  as  each  package 
is  opened  —  we  can  almost  hear  them. 

*'  The  terrible  announcement  that  the  baby  had 
been  taken  in  the  act  of  putting  a  doll's  frying- 
pan  into  his  mouth,  and  was  more  than  suspected 
of  having  swallowed  a  fictitious  turkey,  glued  on 
a  wooden  platter!  The  immense  relief  of  finding 
this  a  false  alarm!  The  joy  and  gratitude  and 
ecstasy!  They  are  all  indescribable,  alike.  It  is 
enough  that  by  degrees  the  children  and  their  emo- 
tions got  out  of  the  parlour,  and  by  one  stair  at  a 
time,  up  to  the  top  of  the  house;  w^here  they  went 
to  bed  and  so  subsided."  Who  but  Dickens  could 
show  us  these  happy,  tired  little  children  toiling  up 
the  stairs,  clasping  their  toys  in  their  eager  arms ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present,  who  next  appeared 
to  Scrooge,  was  a  jolly,  festive  Giant,  a  Giant  who 
held  a  torch  like  a  Horn  of  Plenty,  and  w^ho  sat 
upon  a  couch  or  sort  of  throne,  made  of  all  the  good 
things  to  eat  that  one  could  possibly  imagine  at 
Christmas  time. 

Scrooge  went  with  this  Spirit  into  the  home  of 
his  own  poor,  underpaid  clerk.  Boh  Cratchit,  "  and 
on  the  threshold  the  Spirit  smiled,  and  stopped  to 


200  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

bless  Bob  Cratchit's  dwelling  with  the  sprinklings 
of  his  torch.  Think  of  that!  Bob  had  but  fifteen 
*  Bob '  a  week  himself;  he  pocketed  on  Saturdays 
but  fifteen  copies  of  his  Christian  name;  and  yet 
the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present,  blessed  his  four- 
roomed  house."  Which  means,  of  course,  that  the 
Cratchits  had  the  real  Spirit  of  Christmas  in  their 
midst,  no  matter  how  poor  and  pinched  they  might 
be  in  the  world's  goods. 

Whoever  reads  "  A  Christmas  Carol "  and  does 
not  love  the  Cratchit  family,  from  Bob  himself  to 
Tiny  Tim,  the  dear  little  lame  boy,  who  when  Bob 
proposed  "  A  Merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears, 
God  bless  us ! "  echoed  in  his  weak  little  voice, 
"  God  bless  us,  every  one !  "  is  hard  to  please. 

There  was  no  lack  of  children  in  the  Cratchit 
family.  Mrs.  Cratchit  herself  looked  sweet  and 
motherly  in  her  twice-turned  gown  and  new  ribbons ; 
then  there  were  Martha  Cratchit  and  Belinda 
Cratchit  and  two  smaller  Cratchits  and  Tiny  Tim, 
such  a  happy  family,  and  how  we  love  to  linger 
among  them!  And  oh,  the  things  they  had  to  eat 
—  and  how  Dickens  loved  to  spread  a  feast  for  his 
poor  people;  how  they  ever  escaped  illness  after 
so  many  goodies,  it  is,  indeed,  hard  to  tell.  He 
loved,  too,  to  take  his  readers  out  of  the  storms 
and  howling  winds  of  winter,  and  set  them  down 
beside  the  cheery  Christmas  fire,  and  hold  a  shovel- 
ful of  dancing  chestnuts  over  the  blaze,  and  see 
them  puff  and  crack  and  burst.     His  little  ''  Carol," 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  201 

as  he  called  it,  made  a  great  stir,  though  it  was 
only  a  simple,  crimson-covered  volume,  illustrated 
by  John  Leech,  with  color  etchings  and  woodcuts. 
Letters  came  to  him  from  all  over  the  world,  for 
the  quaint  allegory  found  its  way  to  the  very  hearts 
and  souls  of  people. 

"  A  Christmas  Carol  "  was  written  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  old-fashioned  Carol,  in  Staves  instead  of 
Chapters.  He  sent  a  copy  of  this  newest  child  of 
his  to  his  friend,  Professor  Felton,  calling  it  a  Short 
Story  of  Christmas,  by  Charles  Dickens,  "  Over 
which  Christmas  Carol  Charles  Dickens  wept,  and 
laughed,  and  wept  again,  and  excited  himself  in 
the  most  extraordinary  manner  in  the  composi- 
tion. ...  Its  success  is  most  prodigious,  and 
by  every  post,  all  manner  of  strangers  write  all 
manner  of  letters  to  him  about  their  homes  and 
hearths,  and  how  this  same  Carol  is  read  aloud  there, 
and  kept  on  a  little  shelf  by  itself.  Indeed,  it  is 
the  greatest  success,  as  I  am  told,  that  this  ruffian 
and  rascal  has  ever  achieved." 

In  truth,  a  wealth  of  sentiment  has  always  clung 
around  the  "  Carol."  It  is  said  that  the  novelist's 
son,  Mr.  Henry  Fielding  Dickens,  reads  it  aloud  to 
his  family  every  Christmas  Day,  and  there  is  cer- 
tainly no  Christmas  Sermon  ever  written  that  has 
clung  so  to  the  very  heartstrings  of  all  manner  of 
people. 

The  special  Yule-tide  which  brought  forth  the 
"  Carol  "   was   a   season   of  much   celebration   for 


202  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Dickens  and  his  family,  winding  up  with  a  birthday 
party  of  one  of  Macready's  children,  where  Dickens 
and  Forster  amused  the  youngsters  w^ith  all  sorts 
of  conjuring  tricks,  enjoying  them  no  doubt  as 
much  as  the  children  themselves. 

But  all  this  occurred  before  Dickens  had  defi- 
nitely decided  to  take  his  family  to  Italy.  Neither 
the  ''  Carol  "  nor  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  had  added 
what  he  desired  to  his  income,  and  a  year  or  more 
of  simpler  living  abroad  would  be  a  great  pecuniary 
gain.  After  consultation  with  friends,  he  decided 
to  settle  near  Genoa,  and  their  first  halt  was  Albaro, 
a  suburb  of  that  city,  which  they  reached  in  July, 
1844. 

Their  house  was  called  Villa  di  Bagnarello,  de- 
scribed by  Dickens  as  a  "  pink  jail."  Being  brimful 
of  associations,  he  would  have  preferred  Lord 
Byron's  old  house,  but  alas!  being  uninhabitable 
as  a  home,  it  had  been  turned  into  a  wine  shop. 
However,  they  had  a  splendid  view  of  Genoa  and 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  about  which 
he  was  never  tired  of  writing.  But  he  was  rest- 
less, his  writing  materials  had  not  arrived  from 
England,  and  he  w^as  never  at  home  unless  sur- 
rounded by  certain  accustomed  objects.  Until  his 
paper  and  pens  were  laid  out,  his  inkstand  opened, 
and  sundry  little  figures,  which  always  stood  on  his 
desk,  were  arranged  in  their  proper  positions,  he 
could  do  nothing.  When  this  was  accomplished  he 
could  settle  to  serious  work. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  203 

He  was  contemplating  a  second  Christmas  book, 
and  had  the  idea  of  "  The  Chimes,"  but  the  title 
had  not  yet  come  to  his  mind.  In  fact,  just  at  that 
time  he  was  in  too  restless  a  mood  to  write  at  all, 
but  wandered  about  the  streets  of  Genoa,  studying 
the  people  and  the  strange  customs.  Here  they 
stayed  until  the  end  of  September,  but  some  im- 
portant events  were  crowded  into  those  two  months. 

First  of  all,  he  went  head  foremost  over  a  pole 
which  had  been  stretched  across  one  of  the  dark 
Genoese  streets,  and  which  he  did  not  see,  while 
endeavoring  to  escape  from  a  very  stupid  party, 
and  the  result  was  a  sharp  though  short  attack  of 
illness  commencing  with  the  same  agonizing  pain 
in  the  side  from  which  he  suffered  so  often  as  a 
boy.  Soon  after  his  recovery  he  went  to  Mar- 
seilles to  meet  his  brother  Frederick,  and  they  came 
down  together  to  Albaro.  On  the  morning  after 
their  arrival,  the  two  young  men  went  swimming 
in  the  bay,  and  Frederick  was  nearly  drowned  be- 
fore his  brother's  eyes.  A  fishing  boat,  arriving 
in  the  nick  of  time,  just  saved  his  life,  but,  as  Dick- 
ens himself  said :  "  It  was  a  world  of  horror  and 
anguish  to  me,  crowded  into  four  or  five  minutes 
of   dreadful   agitation." 

And  last,  but  not  least,  came  a  decided  alteration 
in  the  young  author's  appearance.  Hitherto  his 
handsome,  almost  boyish  face  had  been  beardless, 
and  his  well-cut  chin  and  mouth  added  much  to  his 
general  expression,  but,  aping  the  fashion  of  the 


204  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Italians,  he  now  adorned  his  upper  Hp  with  a  mus- 
tache, or  mustaches  as  they  were  called,  and  Dickens 
writes  of  them: 

*'  They  are  charming,  charming.  Without  them 
life  v/ould  be  a  blank." 

Towards  the  end  of  September  he  moved  into  a 
suite  of  rooms  in  the  Palazzo  Pechiere  for  the  win- 
ter, just  overlooking  the  outskirts  of  the  city  —  a 
stately,  wonderful  place,  with  its  sculptures  and 
stone  balconies  and  fountains,  its  groves  of  camelias 
and  orange  trees,  while  inside,  the  frescoes,  many 
of  them  done  by  Michael  Angelo,  were  beautiful 
enough  to  delight  the  eye  of  any  artist. 

But,  though  we  might  scarcely  believe  it,  this 
exceedingly  queer  young  man,  with  a  new  Christ- 
mas story  seething  in  his  mind,  was  longing  in- 
tensely for  his  dear,  dark  London  streets,  where 
he  might  tramp  and  tramp  all  the  night  through, 
if  so  he  wished  —  and  think  and  think.  He  missed 
his  friends,  too,  especially  Forster,  to  whom  he 
usually  outlined  his  ideas  before  even  setting  them 
down  on  paper. 

He  wished  to  make  this  coming  story  an  appeal 
in  behalf  of  the  poor  of  London,  and  he  had  a 
certain  peculiarity  in  not  being  able  to  write  a 
single  line  of  any  story  until  a  way  was  cleared  for 
the  title,  but  it  eluded  him  for  a  long  time,  until 
one  morning  a  maddening  clash  of  bells  rose  from 
the  city  of  Genoa,  jangling  with  every  sort  of  dis- 
cord to  set  one's  teeth  on  edge.     Instantly  the  title 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  205 

for  his  book  suggested  itself.  It  was  to  be  called 
"  The  Chimes,"  and  should  resound  over  England  — 
not  Genoa.  Little  he  cared  for  the  Genoese 
churches  and  convents  where  those  bells  hung;  his 
bells  should  be  in  an  old  London  belfry,  and  they 
should  ring  in  a  New  Year  for  the  London  people 
—  the  poor  people  who  found  it  hard  to  get  work  — 
and  were  constantly  being  "  put  down "  by  the 
Aldermen  and  the  City  heads. 

Once  armed  with  his  title,  Dickens  plunged  into 
the  very  heart  of  his  story;  he  wrote  it  in  a  state 
of  great  mental  excitement,  for  through  its  means 
he  wished  to  expose  a  certain  body  of  pompous 
men  who  talked  a  great  deal  about  what  was  good 
for  the  poor,  what  should  be  done  for  the  poor, 
and  how  the  poor  should  be  "  put  down,"  and 
whose  useless  chatter  succeeded  generally  in  driving 
the  poor  to  desperation. 

He  divided  "  The  Chimes  "  into  "  Quarters,"  as 
he  divided  the  "  Carol  "  into  "  Staves,"  and  into 
these  "  Quarters  "  he  put  his  whole  heart  and  soul. 
When  he  came  to  the  third  part  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  ill,  so  untiringly  had  he  worked,  and  in  very 
truth  his  cheeks  were  hollow,  his  eyes  sunken,  and 
his  head  was  hot  to  almost  fever  heat,  with  the 
mental  effort  this  writing  cost  him. 

We  all  know  and  love  the  story  of  Toby  Veck, 
the  poor  little  shivering,  ill-clad  porter  who  held  a 
sort  of  permanent  stand  in  the  very  shadow  of  the 
old  belfry  where  hung  the  chimes;  who  dared  to 


206  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

eat  his  dinner  of  stewed  tripe  on  the  steps  of  the 
rich  Alderman  Cute,  and  who  was  ordered  away 
before  he  had  half  finished  his  meal.  We  love  little 
old  Toby  from  the  beginning,  and  are  sorry  to  see 
that  on  this  New  Year's  Eve  he  has  been  foolish 
enough  to  believe  what  Sir  Joseph  Bozvley  and 
Alderman  Cute  say  of  poor  people  —  that  they  are 
bad  and  that  they  all  must  be  "  put  down." 

Toby  was  often  called  Trotty  Veck,  because, 
having  no  overcoat,  he  often  trotted  out  of  his 
nook  by  the  belfiy  and  down  the  street  to  warm 
his  thin  old  blood  —  when  the  day  was  bitterly 
cold  or  the  penetrating  dampness  got  into  his  old 
bones. 

Year  after  year  he  had  stood  waiting  for  what 
chance  work  might  come  in  his  way  just  in  the 
shadow  of  the  chimes.  He  had  grown  to  love  the 
bells,  to  watch  for  their  ringing,  ''  and  he  very 
often  got  such  a  crick  in  his  neck  from  staring  — 
with  his  mouth  wide  open  —  at  the  steeple  where 
they  hung,  that  he  was  fain  to  take  an  extra  trot 
or  two,  afterwards,  to  cure  it." 

Toby  read  a  week-old  daily  paper  and  fell  into 
a  study: 

"  '  It  frightens  me  almost,'  he  said,  '  I  don't  know 
what  we  poor  people  are  coming  to.  Lord  send  we 
may  be  coming  to  something  better  in  the  New 
Year  nigh  upon  us ! '  " 

Toby  was  quite  impressed  with  the  idea  that  poor 
people  were  no   good   on   earth,   even  though  he 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  207 

thought  better  when  he  looked  into  the  face  of  his 
blooming  daughter  Meg  and  her  stalwart  lover, 
Richard. 

Such  a  dear,  sweet  girl  was  Meg,  with  her  beau- 
tiful eyes.  "  Eyes  that  would  bear  a  world  of 
looking  in,  before  their  depth  was  fathomed.  Dark 
eyes  which  reflected  back  the  eyes  which  searched 
them;  not  flashingly  or  at  the  owner's  will,  but 
with  a  clear,  calm,  honest,  patient  radiance,  claim- 
ing kindred  with  that  light  which  Heaven  called  into 
being.  Eyes  that  were  beautiful  and  true,  and 
beaming  with  Hope;  with  Hope  so  young  and 
fresh ;  with  Hope  so  buoyant,  vigorous,  and  bright, 
despite  the  twenty  years  of  work  and  poverty  on 
which  they  had  looked;  that  they  became  a  voice 
to  Trotty  Veck  and  said :  *  I  think  we  have  some 
business  here  —  a  little ! '  " 

Dear  wholesome  Meg  meant  just  the  sunny  side 
of  poverty,  and  big  strong  Richard,  the  laboring 
class  that  means  to  win  —  youth  and  health  and 
strength  to  fight  the  battle.  But  Toby  needed  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  to  help  him  back  into  the 
right  way  of  thinking. 

One  step  in  the  right  direction  was  to  help  some- 
one more  unfortunate  than  himself.  So  to  poor, 
hunted-down  Will  Fern  and  his  little  daughter 
Lilian,  the  good  little  Toby  offered  the  shelter  of 
his  home.  But  still  he  pondered  over  the  words 
of  Alderman  Cute  and  Mr.  Filer,  and  Sir  Joseph 
Bowley,  who  would  put  the  poor  man  down,  and 


208  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

somehow  the  clashing  chimes  seemed  to  take  up 
the  refrain  — **  Put  'em  down,  Put  'em  down !  " 
While  the  rich  people  from  their  lofty  height 
preached  to  the  poor,  the  following  sermon: 

Oh,  let  us  love  our  occupations, 
Bless  the  squire  and  his  relations, 
Live  upon  our  daily  rations, 
And  always  know  our  proper  stations. 

Too  much  lonely  thinking  of  this  sort  began  to 
haunt  poor  Trotty  Veck.  The  Chimes  always 
clashed  now  out  of  tune,  and  that  night  —  that  very 
New  Year's  Eve  —  they  called  to  him : 

'^  *  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  waiting  for  you, 
Toby!  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  waiting  for  you, 
Toby!  Come  and  see  us,  come  and  see  us.  Drag 
him  to  us,  drag  him  to  us.  Haunt  and  hunt  him, 
haunt  and  hunt  him.  Break  his  slumbers,  break  his 
slumbers!  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  door  open 
wide,  Toby,  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  door  open 
wide,  Toby  — '  " 

The  more  he  listened,  the  louder  and  more  in- 
sistent came  the  call  of  the  chimes,  and  the  old 
porter  —  hatless  and  coatless  —  followed  their  call 
— ''  Up,  up,  up  "  the  belfry  stairs,  "  and  round  and 
round;  and  up,  up,  up;  higher,  higher,  higher  up! 


"  This  was  the  belfry  where  the  ringers  came. 
He  had  caught  hold  of  one  of  the  frayed  ropes  which 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  209 

hung  down  through  apertures  in  the  open  roof.  At 
first  he  started,  thinking  it  was  hair ;  then  trembled 
at  the  very  thought  of  waking  the  deep  Bell.  The 
Bells  themselves  were  higher.  Higher,  Trotty  in  his 
fascination,  or  in  working  out  the  spell  upon  him, 
groped  his  way.  By  ladder  now,  and  toilsomely, 
for  it  was  steep  and  not  too  certain  holding  for 
the  feet." 

All  this  wonderful  description  and  much  that 
follows  is  beautiful  rhythmical  blank  verse.  Most 
likely  at  the  first  writing,  Dickens  put  it  in  verse 
form,  as  he  did  many  passages  in  "  The  Old  Curi- 
osity Shop,"  and  as  he  often  did  in  the  heat  of 
composition,  when  his  thoughts  flowed  to  that 
measure. 

The  "  Third  Quarter  "  deals  with  the  Bells  and 
the  Goblins  who  dwelt  beneath  them  in  their 
shadow.  And  a  wonderful  "  quarter  "  it  is  —  a  bit 
of  word  painting,  quite  unusual  even  for  Charles 
Dickens,  who  did  and  wrote  unusual  things.  Poor 
little  Tohy  Veck,  among  the  grimness  of  it  all,  shud- 
dered as  the  goblins  flitted  by  him  in  the  darkness. 
Children  reading  it  to-day  hold  each  other's  hands 
and  draw  deep  breaths  of  awe.  The  Bells  com- 
plained that  Tohy  had  wronged  them  by  mistaking 
their  message,  and  Tohy  was  now  put  through  his 
trial  under  their  deep-mouthed  shadow. 

In  short,  "  The  Chimes  "  preached  a  beautiful 
sermon,  not  only  to  the  world  of  readers  but  to  the 
writer  himself.     When  he  had  finished  the  story, 


210  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

he  shut  himself  up  and  had  ''  a  good  cry,"  and  later 
he  wrote  to  Thomas  Mitton : 

'^  I  have  worn  miyself  to  death,  in  the  month  I 
have  been  at  work,  ...  I  have  not  been  able  to 
divest  myself  of  the  story  —  have  suffered  very 
much  in  my  sleep  in  consequence,  and  am  so  shaken 
by  such  work  in  this  trying  climate  that  I  am  as 
nervous  as  a  man  who  is  dying  of  drink  and  as 
haggard  as  a  murderer.  I  believe  I  have  written 
a  tremendous  book,  and  knocked  the  '  Carol '  out 
of  the  field." 

He  was  not  altogether  right  in  this  assertion. 
He  never  knocked  *'  The  Carol  "  out  of  the  field  — 
not  even  when  he  wrote  ''  The  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth,"  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  The 
beauty  of  *'  The  Chimes "  is  for  older  eyes  and 
hearts;  girls  and  boys  will  laugh  and  cry  over  the 
other  two  long  before  they  even  grasp  dimly  at  the 
true  meaning  of  ''  The  Chimes,"  and  even  we  older 
ones  are  apt  for  *'  Auld  lang  syne  "  to  read  over 
and  over  what  pleased  us  best  in  our  childhood. 

As  for  Dickens  himself,  he  was  very  much  elated 
over  what  he  considered  a  beautiful  piece  of  work, 
and  he  had  a  wild,  boyish  desire  to  read  this  m.as- 
terpiece  to  a  chosen  circle  of  his  friends,  wild 
enough,  in  fact,  to  carry  him  to  London  for  that 
express  purpose.  He  wrote  to  John  Forster  sug- 
gesting an  evening  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  (Fors- 
ter's  residence),  and  inclosing  a  list  of  the  chosen 
spirits  who  he  knew  w^ould  enjoy  the  reading. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  211 

There  were  eleven  present  at  this  famous  meet- 
ing, which  Daniel  Maclise  has  immortalized  by  a 
charming  sketch  of  the  lofty  room  and  the  distin- 
guished company. 

Dickens,  seated  at  the  large  table,  looked  par- 
ticularly young  and  boyish  in  the  midst  of  them  all. 
On  one  side  of  him  sat  Carlyle,  on  the  other  — 
Fox.  The  rest  of  the  interested  circle  consisted  of 
Forster,  Gerrold,  Blanchard,  Frederick  Dickens, 
Maclise,  Stanfield,  Dyce  and  Harness,  all  intimate 
friends.  Such  a  reading  as  it  was!  He  reached 
England  on  the  30th  of  November,  and  the  mem- 
orable reading  took  place  on  the  2nd  of  December. 
Most  of  the  company  were  in  tears,  for  the  Novelist 
had  great  power  as  a  reader,  a  power  which  brought 
him  much  fame  as  he  grew  older.  He  read  '^  The 
Chimes  "  twice  in  London  during  that  brief  stay 
of  a  week,  then  he  vanished  like  the  Spirit  of  Christ- 
mas to  his  Italian  home,  and  "  The  Chimes  "  rang 
out  their  message  to  the  world. 

"  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  the  third  of  the 
famous  Christmas  Series,  was  not  thought  of  until 
his  year's  sojourn  in  Italy  had  drawn  to  a  close. 
He  was  very  homesick,  and  was  glad  to  settle  down 
in  Devonshire  Terrace  once  more. 

When  ''  The  Cricket "  first  took  shape  in  his 
mind,  it  was  in  the  guise  of  a  periodical.  "  I  would 
call  it,  sir,"  he  said  to  his  ever  faithful  friend,  John 
Forster,  "  *  The  Cricket.  A  cheerful  creature  that 
chirrups  on  the  Hearth.     Natural  History/  " 


212  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  scheme  was  a  good  one,  but  the  year  (1845) 
was  one  of  disaster  all  over  the  country,  so  it  was 
wisely  abandoned.  The  story,  however,  began  to 
take  shape  —  a  delicate,  poetic  fancy,  not  the  out- 
come of  the  wild  excitement  in  which  "  The 
Chimes  "  was  conceived,  but  lighted  by  the  steady 
glow  of  home  life,  in  which  Dickens  always  took 
lasting  pleasure.  This  story  was  not  written  in 
such  a  heat;  in  fact,  he  had  a  number  of  ideas  and 
projects  in  his  mind,  that  restless,  brilliant  mind, 
that  seriously  interfered  with  anything  like  steady 
writing,  but  in  spite  of  many  drawbacks  this  "  Fairy 
Tale  of  Home  '^  was  published  in  1846,  and  brought 
real  success  to  the  author,  more  than  he  had  counted 
on,  more  than  he  had  imagined  possible  from  the 
theme  of  the  simple  little  story.  He  was  "  sick, 
bothered,  and  depressed  "  during  the  writing  of  it, 
and  his  many  duties  in  all  directions  kept  him  from 
those  long  walks  in  which  he  rejoiced,  and,  truth 
to  tell,  it  did  not  seem  to  him  such  a  burst  of  inspi- 
ration as  did  the  two  others.  But  the  great  world 
of  readers  thought  otherwise,  and  when  at  Christ- 
mas, 1845,  "  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  began  to 
chirp,  the  blithe,  cheery  sound  found  a  welcome  far 
and  near. 

What  matter  that  the  tale  was  built  upon  the  com- 
mon things  in  life  —  among  the  common  people. 
What  matter  that  the  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  had  a 
rival  in  the  Kettle  on  the  Hob !  What  matter  that 
the  Carrier  was  only  a  bluff,  hearty,  simple  fellow ! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  213 

He  could  understand  the  chirp  of  the  Cricket  as 
well  as  Mrs.  Dot,  his  plump  and  pretty  little  wife. 
Was  there  ever  a  happier  household  than  the  House 
of  Peeryhingle,  which  included  the  Carrier  and  his 
little  wife  and  the  blessed  Baby,  and  Boxer  —  the 
dog,  and  Tilly  Slowhoy  —  the  Baby's  special 
attendant. 

Boxer  usually  accompanied  the  Carrier  on  his 
rounds —  {John  was  a  parcel  carrier,  and  this  was 
Christmas)  and  made  himself  quite  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, ..."  now  feigning  to  make  savage 
rushes  at  his  mistress,  and  facetiously  bringing  him- 
self to  sudden  stops;  now  eliciting  a  shriek  from 
Tilly  Slowboy  in  the  low  nursing-chair  near  the  fire, 
by  the  unexpected  application  of  his  moist  noise  to 
her  countenance ;  now  exhibiting  an  obtrusive  inter- 
est in  the  Baby;  now  going  round  and  round  upon 
the  hearth,  and  lying  down  as  if  he  had  established 
himself  for  the  night;  now  getting  up  again  and 
taking  that  nothing  of  a  fag-end  of  that  tail  of 
his,  out  into  the  weather,  as  if  he  had  just  remem- 
bered an  appointment  and  was  off  at  a  round  trot 
to  keep  it." 

With  the  Cricket  chirping  and  the  Kettle  singing, 
and  the  Carrier  just  home  —  out  of  the  cold,  there 
must,  of  course,  be  a  feast. 

"  *  There !     There's    the    tea-pot    ready    on    the 

hob ! '  said  Dot ;  as  briskly  busy  as  a  child  at  play 

at  keeping  house.     *  And  there's  the  cold  knuckle  - 

of  ham;   and  there's  the  butter;   and   there's   the  , 
15 


214  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

crusty  loaf  and  all!  Here's  the  clothes-basket  for 
the  small  parcels,  John,  if  you've  got  any  there  — 
Where  are  you,  John?  Don't  let  the  dear  child  fall 
under  the  grate,  Tilly,  whatever  you  do ! '  " 

And  Tilly  Slowhoy  —  was  there  ever  such  a  de- 
licious bit  of  clumsiness  as  the  poor  little  workhouse 
girl  ''  whose  constant  astonishment  at  finding  her- 
self so  kindly  treated  "  was  really  pathetic.  But 
Mrs.  Dot  knew  that  poor  Tilly  had  an  absent-minded 
way  of  getting  the  Baby  into  difficulties,  occasion- 
ally knocking  its  head  against  *'  deal-doors,  dressers, 
stair-rails,  bedposts,  and  other  foreign  substances.'* 
Miss  Slowhoy  had  many  of  the  distinguishing  traits 
of  the  Marchioness: 

'^  She  was  of  a  spare  and  straight  shape,  this 
young  lady,  insomuch  that  her  garments  appeared 
to  be  in  constant  danger  of  sliding  off  those  sharp 
pegs,  her  shoulders,  on  which  they  were  hung." 
And  she  had  very  startling  ways  of  saying  and 
doing  unexpected  things  —  had  Miss  Slozvhoy,  but 
the  Baby  was  used  to  her,  and  she  was  used  to  the 
Baby,  and  somehow  they  never  came  to  serious 
grief. 

There  were  other  homes  in  the  story,  not  quite 
so  happy  or  so  cheerful,  poor  old  Caleb  Phimmer's, 
for  instance. 

"  Caleb  Plummer  and  his  Blind  Daughter  lived 
all  alone  by  themselves  in  a  little  cracked  nutshell 
of  a  wooden  house  " —  it  belonged  to  Tackleton, 
the  Toy-Maker,  who  was  always  called  Gruff  and 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  215 

Tackleton,  for,  though  his  partner  was  dead,  the 
name  was  quite  suited  to  Tackleton,  the  task-mas- 
ter and  the  money-squeezer,  and  the  Plummers  both 
worked  for  him. 

It  was  an  awful,  shaky  old  place  to  live  in,  but 
Bertha,  the  Blind  Girl  did. not  know  "that  the  ceil- 
ings w^ere  discolored;  walls  blotched  and  bare  of 
plaster  here  and  there;  high  crevices  untopped  and 
widening  every  day ;  beams  mouldering  and  tending 
downward.  The  Blind  Girl  never  knew  that  iron 
was  rusting,  wood  rotting,  paper  peeling  off;  the 
very  size  and  shape  and  true  proportion  of  the 
dwelling  withering  away.  The  Blind  Girl  never 
knew  that  ugly  shapes  of  delf  and  earthen  ware 
were  on  the  board;  that  sorrow  and  faint  hearted- 
ness  were  in  the  house;  that  Caleb's  scanty  hairs 
w^ere  turning  greyer  and  more  grey  before  her 
sightless  face." 

All  this  and  more  was  Caleb's  doing  — "  But  he, 
too,  had  a  Cricket  on  his  Hearth,  and  listening 
sadly  to  its  music,  when  the  motherless  Blind  Child 
was  very  young,  that  Spirit  had  inspired  him  with 
the  thought  that  even  her  great  deprivation  might 
be  almost  changed  into  a  blessing,  and  the  girl 
made  happy  by  these  little  means." 

Caleb  and  his  daughter  worked  together  on  Dolls 
and  their  houses.  "  There  were  houses  finished 
and  unfinished,  for  Dolls  of  all  stations  of  life. 
Suburban  tenements  for  Dolls  of  moderate  means; 
kitchens  and  single  apartments   for  Dolls  of  the 


2l6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

lower  classes;  capital  town  residences  for  Dolls 
of  high  estate.  Some  of  these  establishments  were 
already  furnished  according  to  estimate,  with  a 
view  to  the  convenience  of  Dolls  of  limited  income; 
others  could  be  fitted  on  the  most  expensive  scale 
from  whole  shelves  of  chairs  and  tables,  sofas,  bed- 
steads and  upholstery.  The  nobility  and  gentry 
and  public  in  general,  for  whose  accommodation 
these  tenements  were  designed,  lay  here  and  there 
in  baskets,  staring  straight  up  at  the  ceiling.  .  .  . 
The  Doll-lady  of  distinction  had  wax  limbs  of  per- 
fect symmetry;  .  .  .  the  next  grade  in  the  so- 
cial scale  being  made  of  leather;  and  the  next  —  of 
coarse  linen  stuff.  As  to  the  common-people,  they 
had  just  so  many  matches  out  of  tinder-boxes  for 
their  arms  and  legs,  and  there  they  were  —  estab- 
lished in  their  sphere  at  once,  beyond  the  possibility 
of  getting  out  of  it." 

What  child  could  pass  these  vivid  descriptions 
by.  Toy-making  is  always  fascinating,  and  Caleb 
and  his  blind  daughter  were  dexterous  workers. 

There's  a  Mystery  in  the  simple  story  and  a 
Secret  —  Dot's  Secret  —  and  there's  feasting  and 
a  wedding,  and  all  the  dear  delightful  things  that 
go  to  make  up  everyday  life,  and  it  all  turns  out 
happily  in  the  end,  and  everything  is  merry  as  it 
should  be;  for  we  are  given  to  understand  that 
wherever  the  Cricket  chirps  loudest  on  the  hearth, 
there  is  found  the  happiest  home. 

There    has    been    another   emblem   of   happiness 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS.  217 

lately  discovered  by  Mr.  Maurice  Maeterlinck;  it 
has  the  shape  of  a  Bluebird,  and  it  soars  to  strange 
countries,  whither  questioning  children  long  to  fol- 
low ;  but  the  Cricket  —  Dickens's  Cricket  —  is  al- 
ways on  the  Hearth,  and  w^e  real  mortals —  (and 
Dickens  always  wrote  of  real  mortals  —  in  spite 
of  the  Goblins  and  the  Spirits)  — 

Must  stoop  for  happiness. 
If  we  its  worth  would  know. 

Doing  the  things  which  lie  nearest  to  us  was 
Dickens's  simple  creed,  in  the  writing  of  his 
Christmas  stories  and  in  his  Christmas  spirit; 
homely  little  services  from  the  rich  to  the  poor; 
from  the  poor  to  each  other.  Dickens  was  a 
great  preacher.  How  great,  he  himself  never 
knew. 

From  that  time  forward  the  Christmas  story 
became  a  feature  of  his  life,  and  the  world  always 
looked  for  some  Christmas  message  in  some  little 
gem  of  thought  and  feeling.  He  gave  us  "  The 
Haunted  Man,"  "The  Battle  of  Life,"  "Some- 
body's Luggage,"  "  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings," 
"  Dr.  Marigold,"  and  a  host  of  others,  for  genera- 
tions to  read  and  enjoy. 

After  Dickens's  day,  the  Christmas  story  still 
held  its  place  in  the  popular  heart;  even  to-day  we 
look  eagerly  for  the  Christmas  number  among  our 
many  magazines,  and  hunt  for  the  stories.  Some 
are  strong,  some  are  w^eak  and  unconvincing,  yet 


2l8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

they  breathe  of  Christmas,  if  ever  so  faintly,  and 
we  try  to  be  satisfied. 

But  Dickens,  with  his  lusty  tales,  gave  us  the 
very  Spirit  of  Christmas;  there  is  the  strength  of 
the  pioneer  in  this  work  of  his,  and  all  of  us,  young 
and  old,  turn  to  him  again  and  again  with  the  com- 
ing of  the  Yule-tide. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    GIRLS    OF    DICKENS's    DAY. 

HE  years  that  intervened  between  the 
writing  of  his  novels  were  always  rest- 
less years  for  the  great  author.  The 
active  mind,  forever  groping  towards 
some  higher  ideal,  was  never  better  poised  than 
when  w^orking  out  the  intricate  details  of  his  stories, 
living  in  a  dream  world  —  dealing  with  dream 
people. 

The  interval  between  ''  The  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth  "  and  "  Dombey  and  Son  "  was  even  more 
than  usually  restless.  Indeed,  restlessness  was  at 
the  very  root  of  his  genius.  After  his  return  from 
America  he  found  the  year  at  home  very  trying 
—  he  wanted  to  see  more  of  the  world,  so  he  went 
to  Italy.  He  stayed  long  enough  to  become  ac- 
customed to  the  life  and  to  the  people  of  Genoa; 
then  he  w^anted  to  travel  through  Italy,  which  he 
did  —  looked  into  the  crater  of  Mt.  Vesuvius  — 
then  back  to  Genoa,  and  then  homesickness  again, 
and  Devonshire  Terrace  again,  taking  in  Switzer- 
land on  the  way  back. 

"What  a  beautiful  country  it  is!"   he  writes. 

219 


220  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

''  How  poor  and  shrunken  beside  it  is  Italy  in  its 
brightest  aspect." 

This  glimpse  of  Switzerland  haunted  him  —  it 
was  such  a  small  one,  he  longed  for  more  —  but 
home  called  him  and  he  went.  There  was  a  short 
interval  of  rest  before  he  settled  down  to  work 
again,  when  he  and  his  friends  became  stage-struck, 
and  decided  to  give  a  play.  They  rented  Miss 
Kelly's  theater  for  one  night,  and  produced  Ben 
Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humor."  The  first 
performance  took  place  September  21,  1845,  ^^^ 
was  so  great  a  success  in  a  private  way  that  an- 
other performance  was  given  in  a  larger  theater, 
to  which  the  public  were  admitted,  and  the  pro- 
ceeds were  given  to  charity.  Dickens  had  excep- 
tional gifts  as  an  actor,  and  he  often  said  that  he 
would  have  been  as  successful  "  on  the  boards  as 
he  had  been  between  them  "  (meaning  the  bindings 
of  his  books),  had  he  devoted  his  time  to  it. 

After  this  he  went  to  Broadstairs  for  a  short 
holiday,  and  on  October  28,  1845,  his  sixth  child 
and  fourth  son,  Alfred  Tennyson  Dickens,  was 
born. 

Later  he  became  deeply  interested  in  the  politics  of 
the  day;  he  wrote  timely  verses  for  The  Examiner 
and  short  articles  for  the  Morning  Chronicle,  but, 
not  content  with  becoming  a  paid  contributor  on  a 
daily  paper,  he  was  soon  drawn  into  the  giant 
scheme  of  editing  a  daily  paper  himself.  Forster, 
knowing    his    friend's    temperament,    urged    him 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  221 

against  it;  but  Dickens,  who  was  never  happy  un- 
less he  had  some  sort  of  a  periodical  in  charge, 
was  eager  for  the  experiment,  and  consequently  on 
January  21,  1846,  was  launched  in  London  the  first 
issue  of  the  Daily  News,  which  holds  its  own  to-day 
as  one  of  the  foremost  of  the  London  papers. 

Dickens  became  the  editor-in-chief,  and  his  edi- 
torial staff  was  a  powerful  one.  Both  his  father 
and  his  father-in-law  held  prominent  positions, 
and  many  of  his  most  intimate  friends  fell  in  line 
with  him.  It  was  a  wonderful  start  for  a  news- 
paper, with  such  a  name  as  Charles  Dickens  to 
head  the  working  force;  it  was  strongly  backed, 
and,  with  such  an  energetic  worker  at  the  helm, 
it  could  not  fail  to  steer  into  success.  There  was 
a  magnetism  about  this  man,  young  as  he  was, 
which  one  scarcely  believes  to-day. 

Into  the  Daily  News  went,  number  by  number, 
the  *'  Travelling  Sketches "  of  Italy,  afterwards 
published  under  the  title  of  "  Pictures  from  Italy," 
in  book  form. 

The  editing  of  a  daily  paper  involved  more  labor 
and  worry  than  Dickens,  in  the  first  flush  of  en- 
thusiasm, ever  imagined.  He  could  not  bear  the 
mechanical  drudgery,  and  after  a  few  weeks  he 
decided  to  resign  his  post,  which  passed —  for  the 
rest  of  the  year  —  into  the  hands  of  John  Forster. 

Interested  as  he  was  in  politics  and  the  affairs  of 
the  world,  this  was  plainly  not  the  mission  of 
Charles  Dickens ;  he  was  beginning  to  feel  the  need 


222  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

of  being  closer  to  his  world  of  readers  than  the 
columns  of  a  newspaper  would  permit,  and  no  one 
knew  better  than  himself  what  work  pleased  his 
readers  most.  In  truth,  there  was  a  new  book 
buzzing  in  his  head.  He  began  to  wander  at  night 
in  strange  nooks  and  corners  of  London,  as  he  al- 
ways did  when  the  writing  spell  came  upon  him. 
He  began  to  long  for  some  quiet  place,  and  to  feel 
that  London  —  with  its  political  stir  and  the  infant 
newspaper  in  which  he  was  still  too  much  inter- 
ested —  was  not  just  then  what  he  wanted.  In- 
deed, we  know  enough  of  this  restless  young  man 
to  understand  that  where  he  was,  was  never  where 
he  wished  to  be,  and,  however  trying  such  a  dis- 
position might  have  been  to  those  about  him,  it 
certainly  gave  great  results  to  the  world. 

Where  he  wanted  to  be  just  now  was  in  Switzer- 
land, but  there  were  many  things  to  be  done  before- 
hand. The  "  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  was  com- 
pleted for  Christmas,  and  the  "  Travelling 
Sketches "  were  concluded  in  the  Daily  News, 
gathered  together,  and  issued  in  book  form  under 
the  title  of  "  Pictures  from  Italy,"  and  in  his 
preface  he  tells  his  readers  frankly  that  he  has 
made  a  mistake  in  interrupting  —  even  for  a  short 
while  —  their  old  relations,  adding,  "  I  am  now 
about  to  resume  them  joyfully  in  Switzerland; 
where,  during  another  year  of  absence,  I  can  at 
once  work  out  the  themes  I  have  now  in  my  mind, 
without  interruption." 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  223 

Then,  too,  a  longing  for  the  old  home  came  over 
him,  and  on  his  birthday,  1846,  a  congenial  party 
— -consisting  of  himself  and  his  wife,  Miss  Ho- 
garth, Maclise,  Jerrold  and  Forster  —  went  to 
Rochester  to  celebrate,  stopped  at  the  "  Bull "  Inn, 
which  "  Pickwick  "  had  made  famous,  and  visited 
all  his  favorite  spots  in  the  neighborhood.  Again 
the  ''  small  boy "  wandered  in  spirit  over  the 
Kentish  hills,  and  once  more  he  showed  his  friends 
the  Gad's  Hill  of  his  dreams.  He  was  nearer  to 
it  now,  but  still  not  near  enough  to  take  it  as  his 
own.  He  only  liked  to  look  at  it  once  in  a  while, 
and  wonder  how  long  it  would  be  before  he  would 
reach  his  heart's  desire. 

He  left  England  the  end  of  May,  1846,  having 
i'ented  his  house  in  Devonshire  Terrace  for  one 
year,  and  reached  Lausanne,  Switzerland,  early  in 
June.  Here  in  this  beautiful  spot  he  secured  a 
villa  smothered  in  roses,  *'  beautifully  situated  on  a 
hill  that  rises  from  the  lake,"  while  his  study  looked 
out  upon  the  water  and  the  mountains.  His  pretty 
resting-place  was  appropriately  called  "  Rose- 
mont,"  and  here,  when  his  usual  box  of  materials 
had  arrived  from  London,  he  settled  down  to  write 
in  earnest;  he  never  could  write  without  these 
quaint  little  bronze  figures  on  his  desk,  his  blue 
ink,  and  his  quill  pens.  How  any  genius  could 
flow  from  the  scratching  point  of  a  quill  pen,  it 
is  hard  to  understand,  but  Charles  Dickens  —  to 
the  end  of  his  days  —  wrote  with  no  other. 


224  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

There  are  no  such  geniuses  —  more's  the  pity ! 
in  these  days  of  fountain-pens,  but  perhaps  we  will 
have  one  some  day;  there  may  be  some  little 
"  Kindergartner "  even  now,  whose  great  brain 
may  be  developing  into  a  Dickens  or  a  Thackeray 
or  a  Scott,  or  even  a  Shakespeare;  there  may  be 
some  childish  voices  now  singing  "  Tra-la-la  "  in 
baby  chorus,  that  may  be  able  to  move  a  world 
when  the  voice  gets  deeper  and  the  child  becomes 
a  man  —  who  knows ! 

At  any  rate,  Dickens  was  busy  enough  before 
the  arrival  of  his  magic  box;  he  wrote  an  article 
on  the  Ragged  Schools,  for  Sir  John  Russell,  and 
a  good  deal  for  Miss  Coutts  (afterwards  Baroness 
Burdett-Coutts,  the  millionaire  and  philanthropist), 
in  reference  to  her  charitable  work,  and  about  half 
of  the  New  Testament,  which  he  was  simplifying 
for  his  children's  use,  and  then  — 

"  Began  Domhey! '' 

he  writes  with  italics  and  exclamations. 

He  considered  this  book  an  era,  and  no  doubt 
it  was.  It  was  a  great  book  with  a  great  theme. 
It  was  called  "  Dombey  and  Son,"  though  for  the 
pathos  and  the  pity  of  it  all,  it  might  have  been 
better  named  "  Dombey  and  Daughter " ;  the 
"  Son  "  is  but  a  shadow  —  the  "  Daughter,"  the 
real  dominant  character  of  the  book.  Never  for  a 
moment  through  the  intricate  windings  of  the 
story  do  we  lose   sight  of  the  pathetic  figure  o£ 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  225 

Florence  Domhey,  this  girl  of  girls,  the  most  com- 
plete and  perfectly  girlish  girl  that  Dickens,  up  to 
this  period,  has  ever  given  us. 

We  first  see  the  pretty  little  girl  at  the  bedside 
of  her  dying  mother;  only  one  heart  was  aching  in 
that  heavy,  silent  place,  where  the  loud  ticking  of 
Mr.  Domhey' s  watch  and  the  Doctor's  watch  ran 
a  race  in  the  hush  and  silence.  Then  it  was  over, 
and  she  was  alone  —  quite  alone,  for  "  the  blue 
coat  and  stiff  white  cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of 
creaking  boots  and  a  very  loud  ticking  watch,  em- 
bodied her  idea  of  a  father  "  was  nothing  to  her 
but  an  image  to  be  shunned  whenever  it  was  pos- 
sible. 

Who  knows  what  would  have  become  of  the  little 
girl  during  those  first  dark  days  in  the  grim  house, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  new  brother.  The  servants 
in  the  shadowed  house  were  kind,  but  one  word 
from  her  father,  one  glance  of  kindly  notice  —  all 
that  the  child  really  craved  —  never  came  her  way. 
She  ate  her  little  heart  out  in  silent  grief  and  sor- 
row, until  the  kind-hearted  servants  gave  her  the 
comfort  she  needed. 

"  *  What  have  they  done  with  my  mamma  ?  '  in- 
quired this  little  mourner  of  six  years. 

''  * .  .  .  Come  nearer  here,  my  dear  Miss,'  " 
said  good  Polly  Toodles  [known  as  Richards,  when 
installed  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul].  *  Don't  be 
afraid  of  me.' 

"  '  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,'  said  the  child,  draw- 


226  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ing  nearer.     '  But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have 
done  with  my  mamma/ 

"  '  My  darling/  said  Richards,  '  you  wear  that 
pretty  black  frock  in  remembrance  of  your 
mamma.' 

"  ^  I  can  remember  my  mamma/  returned  the 
child,  with  tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  *  in  any 
frock.' 

*' '  But  people  put  on  black  to  remember  people 
when  they're  gone.' 

"  *  Where  gone  ?  '  asked  the  child. 

" '  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,'  said  Richards, 
'  and  I'll  tell  you  a  story.' " 

And  from  the  lips  of  this  homely,  workaday 
woman,  fell  the  beautiful  story  of  death  and  the 
life  hereafter,  told  as  only  a  simple,  untutored  soul 
could  tell  it,  and  the  little  girl  listened  with  dark 
eyes  full  of  understanding,  and  clasped  her  arms 
around  the  good  nurse's  neck. 

*' '  And  the  child's  heart,'  said  Polly,  drawing 
her  to  her  breast,  '  the  little  daughter's  heart  was 
so  full  of  the  truth  of  this,  that  even  when  she 
heard  it  from  a  strange  nurse  that  couldn't  tell  it 
right  .  .  .  she  found  a  comfort  in  it  —  didn't 
feel  so  lonely  —  sobbed  and  cried  upon  her  bosom 
— '  took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in  her  lap  —  and 
—  there,  there,  there ! '  said  Polly,  smoothing  the 
child's  curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them. 
*  There,  poor  dear ! '  " 

What  little  Florence  would  have  done  without 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  22J 

this  homely  sympathy  there  is  no  telling;  but  the 
sensitive  child  was  touched  in  the  right  spot  and 
at  the  right  moment,  to  keep  her  baby  heart  from 
breaking. 

Her  own  special  attendant,  Susan  Nipper,  seemed 
to  Florence  quite  an  ancient  person  —  indeed,  she 
was  at  least  fourteen  —  and  her  sharp,  jerky  ways 
and  biting  tongue  earned  her  the  name  of  "  Spit- 
fire " ;  but  she  was  a  wholesome,  kindly  girl  for  all 
that,  and,  like  Mrs.  Toodles,  her  heart  ached  for 
her  lonely  charge,  while  her  black  eyes  —  we  al- 
ways remember  Susan  Nipper's  black  eyes  — 
flashed  and  snapped  when  she  saw  her  little  mis- 
tress imposed  upon. 

Girls  wxre  not  much  cared  for  in  the  Dombey 
household.  Indeed,  the  girls  of  Dickens's  day 
w^ere  shy,  retiring  little  creatures,  tucked  away  out 
of  sight  behind  their  big  brothers.  Mr.  Dombey, 
the  head  of  the  house,  was  in  truth  no  different 
from  a  thousand  other  pompous  gentlemen  of  the 
same  stamp.  To  have  an  heir  was  his  ambition. 
Florence,  the  first-born,  being  "  only  a  girl,"  was 
made  to  feel  from  the  beginning  that  she  was  a 
mistake.  Her  father,  absorbed  in  his  great  busi- 
ness, buried  in  plans  for  the  future  welfare  of 
Dombey  and  Son,  thought  of  her  not  at  all,  but  only 
of  the  baby  boy  upon  whom  his  selfish  hopes  were 
centered. 

In  the  creation  of  little  Florence,  Charles  Dickens 
became  the  champion  of  all  the  little  neglected  girl- 


22S  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

hood  in  the  EngHsh  realm.  There  were  many  such 
grim  homes  as  Mr.  Doinhey's,  and  many  pieces  of 
iron  and  flint  Hke  Mr.  Domhey,  men  who  lived 
only  in  the  hope  of  perpetuating  their  empty  names, 
and  consequently  the  more  small  boys  they  had,  to 
carry  that  name  through  coming  generations,  the 
better  pleased  were  they.  Therefore  the  little  girls 
picked  up  an  education  as  best  they  could,  lived 
as  best  they  could,  grew  up  as  best  they  could,  and 
if  they  chanced  —  by  some  happy  accident  —  to 
be  pretty  or  interesting,  why,  perhaps  these  lords 
of  creation,  the  small  boys,  now  grown  to  be  big 
boys,  might  be  attracted  by  them,  and  marriage 
would  follow,  and  what  was  supposed  to  be  the 
highest  ambition  of  any  sensible  little  girl  from 
her  cradle,  would  be  happily  accomplished. 

Florence  Dombey  not  only  had  the  indifference 
of  her  father  to  battle  with,  but  there  was  besides 
always  a  smouldering  fire  of  jealousy,  which  some- 
times burned  with  the  glow  of  hate.  This  quiet, 
gentle  girl  had  the  power  to  attract  the  very  people 
whom  he  wished  to  draw  nearer  to  himself.  His 
dying  wife  had  eyes  only  for  Florence,  and  ears 
only  for  her  whispered  word;  his  little  son  turned 
only  to  Floy,  as  he  called  her,  and  the  beautiful 
woman  who,  in  the  course  of  years,  became  his 
second  wife  had  only  one  wholesome,  human  pas- 
sion, and  that  was  for  Florence. 

Dickens  has  given  us  some  beautiful  portraits 
of  this   lonely,   lovable  girl.     The   first   picture   is 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICICENS'S  DAY.  229 

at  her  mother's  bedside;  next  we  see  her  as  her 
father  did  one  day  — "  toiling  up  the  great,  wide, 
vacant  staircase "  with  her  Httle  brother  in  her 
arms ;  "  his  head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one 
of  his  arms  thrown  negligently  around  her  neck. 
So  they  went  toiling  up;  she  singing  all  the  way, 
and  Paul  sometimes  crooning  out  a  feeble  accom- 
paniment. Mr.  Dombey  looked  after  them  until 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase  —  not  with- 
out halting  to  rest  by  the  way  —  and  passed  out 
of  sight;  and  then  he  stood  gazing  upward,  until 
the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  glimmering  in  a  melan- 
choly manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent  him 
back  to  his  own  room." 

Had  little  Paul  lived,  Mr.  Dombey  might  in  time 
have  shown  some  shadow  of  kindness  to  his  beau- 
tiful little  daughter,  for  love  of  him,  but  this  was 
not .  to  be,  for  Paul  soon  faded  and  died,  and 
Florence  lived  only  to  remind  her  father  that  he 
had  lost  the  one  hope  of  his  life,  that  Dombey 
and  Son  would  be  but  an  empty  name  in  days 
to  come. 

We  see  her  as  the  tender  nurse  of  her  dying 
brother,  old  beyond  her  years,  because  of  the 
lonely  secluded  life  she  led  in  the  great  house, 
away  from  other  little  girls.  She  was  only  twelve, 
and  Paul  was  six,  but  she  was  a  woman  in  every 
thought  and  feeling. 

The  love  between  this  little  brother  and  sister 
shines  through  the  whole  book.     Even  when  Paul 

16 


230  CHA.RLES  DICKENS. 

had  left  her,  the  memory  of  him  stirred  always 
in  her  heart,  and  his  feeling  for  her  was  one  of 
the  most  pathetic  bits  of  child-love.  Only  once  in 
his  short  life  were  they  ever  separated,  and  that 
w^as  when  he  went  to  Dr.  B limber's  Select  School. 
Even  then  Florence  hovered  near  him,  for  Dr. 
Blirnher's  School  was  at  Brighton,  and  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  house,  where  Florence  stopped,  was  just 
around  the  corner. 

The  little  boy,  so  good,  so  gentle,  and  so  frail, 
never  played  with  the  young  gentlemen  of  Dr. 
Blirnher's  School;  he  used  to  sit  for  hours  watch- 
ing the  Sea  from  the  window  of  his  little  bedroom; 
he  loved  to  see  the  ships  moving  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  deep  waters. 

He  had  the  quaintest  ideas  about  things  — 
that  baby  boy  —  to  him  the  sails  of  the  tiny 
boats  looked  like  waving  white  arms  beckoning  him 
to  follow ;  where  —  the  child  could  not  tell,  but  far, 
far  away,  farther  than  India,  which  to  an  English 
child  seemed  very  far  indeed. 

When  the  evenings  grew  longer,  "  Paul  stole  up 
to  his  window  to  look  for  Florence.  She  always 
passed  and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  until  she  saw 
him,  and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life." 

His  father  came,  too,  but  Paul  did  not  know  it, 
for  the  reserved  and  haughty  man  came  at  night, 
when  none  could  see  him  looking  up  at  his  son's 
windows. 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  231 

Then  came  that  time  when  Florence  never  left 
her  brother,  when  he  said  in  his  feeble  way: 

"  ^  Now  lay  me  down,  and,  Floy,  come  close  to 
me  and  let  me  see  you.' 

"  Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around 
each  other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming 
in,  and  fell  upon  them,  locked  together. 

"  '  How  fast  the  river  runs  between  its  green 
banks  and  the  rushes,  Floy !  But  it's  very  near  the 
sea,  I  hear  the  waves !     They  always  said  so ! ' 

"  Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the 
boat  upon  the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How 
green  the  banks  were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers 
growing  on  them,  and  how  tall  the  rushes!  Now 
the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on. 
And  now  there  was  a  shore  before  him.  Who 
stood  on  the  bank  ?  — 

''  He  put  his  hands  together  as  he  did  at  his 
prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it, 
but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so  behind  her 
neck. 

"  *  Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy,  I  know  her  by  the 
face.  But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs 
at  school  is  not  divine  enough.  The  light  about 
the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go ! ' 

"  The  old  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again, 
and  nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old, 
old  fashion!  The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our 
first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  our 
race  has  run  its  course  and  the  wide  firmament  is 


•2^2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

rolled  up  like  a  scroll.     The   old,   old   fashion  — 
Death ! 

"  Oh,  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older 
fashion  yet,  of  Immortality!  And  look  upon  us, 
angels  of  young  children,  with  regards  not  quite 
estranged,  when  the  swift  river  bears  us  to  the 
ocean !  " 

That  Dickens  was  a  man  of  deep  religious  feel- 
ing, no  one  can  doubt,  after  reading  this  beautiful 
description,  which  is  only  one  of  many  similar 
descriptions  scattered  through  his  books. 

It  has  grown  the  fashion  to  say  that  the  pathos 
of  such  scenes  is  terribly  over-rated,  that  Dickens 
was  apt  to  grow  absurdly  sentimental  at  such  times, 
and  many  other  similar  things.  There  is  only  one 
answer  to  these  up-to-date,  modern  people  —  who 
think  Dickens  old-fashioned.  Let  them  read  the 
death  of  little  Paul,  and  if  they  can  see  that  gentle 
little  child,  loosening  his  hold  of  life;  that  tender, 
desolate  sister  clinging  to  the  frail  body;  if  they  can 
see  this  quite  unmoved  and  can  turn  from  these 
pages  with  undimmed  eyes  —  why,  the  fault  lies 
within  themselves  and  not  in  Dickens,  who  wept 
—  himself  —  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  over  the 
death  of  his  favorite. 

There  is  another  picture  of  Florence y  sad  and 
lonely,  in  the  great  shut-up  house  where  "  there 
was  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan,  to  up- 
hold the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish.  Was  there 
no  other  neck  to  clasp;  no  other  face  to  turn  to; 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  233 

no  one  else  to  say  a  soothing  word  to  such  deep 
sorrow?  Was  Florence  so  alone  in  the  bleak 
world  that  nothing  else  remained  to  her?  Nothing. 
Stricken  motherless  and  brotherless  at  once,  for 
in  the  loss  of  little  Paul,  that  first  and  greatest  loss 
fell  heavily  upon  her  —  this  was  the  only  help  she 
had." 

Was  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  she  loved  Susan 
Nipper;  the  black-eyed  little  maid  with  the  sharp 
tongue  and  the  soft  heart  grew  to  be  very  dear  to 
her  young  mistress,  who  presently  began  to  pick 
up  the  threads  of  her  sad  life.  Think  of  it,  chil- 
dren with  loving  fathers!  Think  of  this  beautiful 
young  girl,  shut  up  in  her  own  rooms!  while  her 
father,  locked  in  his,  would  not  look  upon  her 
face. 

There  was  a  house  across  the  way  where  some 
rosy  children  lived;  they  were  four  little  mother- 
less girls,  and  they  had  a  father  who  made  pets  of 
them.  Poor,  hungry  Florence  watched  them 
from  behind  her  heavy  curtains;  she  did  not  envy 
them,  it  was  not  their  father  she  wanted.  Her 
own  was  downstairs,  all  alone  in  his  gloomy  rooms, 
and  she  dared  not  go  to  him. 

"  Sometimes  when  no  one  in  the  house  was  stir- 
ring .  .  .  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
room,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  stair- 
case and  approach  her  father's  door.  Against  it 
—  scarcely  breathing  —  she  would  rest  her  face 
and  head,  and  press  her  lips  in  the  yearning  of  her 


234  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

love.  She  crouched  on  the  stone  floor  outside  it 
every  night  —  to  Hsten  even  for  his  breath,  and 
in  her  one  absorbing  wish  to  show  him  some  af- 
fection, to  be  a  consolation  to  him,  to  win  him 
over  to  the  endurance  of  som.e  tenderness  from  her 
—  his  solitary  child;  she  would  have  knelt  down 
at  his  feet  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  supplica- 
tion." 

But  other  friends  were  coming  to  brighten  her 
days.  First  of  all  there  was  Mr,  Toots,  Paul's 
schoolmate  at  Dr.  Blimher's,  and  with  him  came 
Diogenes,  the  B  limb  erf  dog,  of  whom  Paul  had 
been  so  fond,  a  rough,  shaggy,  ill-mannered  dog, 
but  a  most  important  character,  for  Florence  never 
parted  with  him,  and  Di,  as  she  called  him,  was  ever 
faithful  in  his  love  for  his  little  mistress. 

There  is  a  sweet  love  story  built  around  the 
lonely  girl,  who  soon  found  that  the  home  of 
Solomon  Gills,  the  instrument  maker,  was  the 
dearest  spot  on  earth,  because  Walter  Gay,  his 
nephew,  lived  there,  and  Walter  was  all  that  a 
young  girl  most  admired  in  a  young  man,  and  so 
they  were  married.  Their  love  rose  out  of  the 
mist  of  sadness,  for  "  Dombey  and  Son  "  is,  after 
all,  the  story  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  haughty, 
heartless  man,  a  man  whose  ambition  was  no 
greater  than  his  pride,  and  both  were  dragged  in 
the  dust. 

The  famous  Captain  Cuttle,  with  his  iron  hook 
instead  of  a  hand,  and  his  big,  benevolent  heart,  is 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  235 

a  portrait  from  life,  also  Soloiuon  Gills;  and  the 
sign  of  the  "  Little  Midshipman "  is  still  to  be 
seen,  though  he  keeps  guard  upon  a  bracket  in 
front  of  a  more  pretentious  place  of  business. 
Mrs.  SkewtoHj  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  Little  Paul 
himself  were  all  living  portraits,  while  the  Toodle 
family  has  become  so  well-known  among  the 
readers  of  Dickens  that  they  seem  quite  real  and 
substantial.  Even  Miss  Cornelia  B limber  could 
be  traced,  for  Dickens's  son  Charles  remembers  a 
young  lady  equally  as  intellectual  who  helped  her 
father  in  a  small  school  which  he  attended. 

Learned  girls  of  Dickens's  day  were  suspicious 
characters,  even  Florence  never  went  to  school 
after  she  was  fourteen;  indeed,  her  education  was 
the  very  last  thing  considered,  and  looking  back 
upon  the  story,  which  covers  all  those  years  when 
she  should  have  been  studying,  it  is  hard  to  under- 
stand how  she  ever  learned  to  read  and  write. 
But  in  some  mysterious  way  these  things  came  to 
her.  Perhaps  her  aunt,  stupid  Mrs.  Chick,  who 
never  received  credit  for  anything  sensible,  had 
some  ideas  of  her  own  concerning  girls,  and,  no 
doubt  —  being  a  kind-hearted  person  —  saw  to  it 
that  her  little  niece  received  some  instruction  of 
some  kind. 

Edith  Domhey,  Florence's  beautiful  stepmother, 
had  many  outside  accomplishments ;  she  could  sing 
and  play  the  harp  and  piano,  and  she  could  also 
draw,  but  girls  of  that  day  never  discussed  books. 


236  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Florence  helped  her  little  brother  with  his  studies, 
and  Dr.  B limber  set  no  easy  tasks,  so  we  may  rea- 
sonably suppose  that  in  the  intervals,  when  Florence 
was  not  thinking  of  her  sad  lot,  she  was  training 
her  active  young  mind. 

It  is  doubtful  if  girls  in  Susan  Nipper's  station 
ever  learned  how  to  do  more  than  read  and  write, 
though  that  young  person,  being  exceptionally 
clever,  may  have  caught  up  the  little  accomplish- 
ments that  Florence  possessed.  At  any  rate,  her 
remarkable  flow  of  language  and  her  quaint  way  of 
saying  things,  made  her  quite  an  unusual  girl. 

'^  Dombey  and  Son  "  marked  an  era  in  Charles 
Dickens's  life;  it  stamped  him  for  all  time  as  a 
Novelist.  The  innumerable  other  things  which 
he  did  by  the  way  were  mere  incidents  in  his  career, 
though  they  were  most  important  incidents,  and 
lived  because  he  put  his  life  and  energy  into  them. 
There  were  several  Christmas  stories  written  be- 
tween his  greater  efforts ;  there  were  two  between 
*' Dombey"  and  "  Copperfield  "— "  The  Battle  of 
Life  "  and  "  The  Haunted  Man."  There  was  also 
a  new  periodical,  Household  Words,  started  in 
1850,  some  months  before  he  finished  "  David  Cop- 
perfield,"  and  there  were  innumerable  articles,  and 
letters,  and  verses,  and  essays,  and  short  stories, 
and  many  journeys  and  theatricals,  and  Heaven 
knows  what  —  to  vary  the  life  of  this  restless 
young  writer.  And  here  it  may  be  interesting  to 
know  that  in  1848,  when  plans  were  afoot  for  the 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  237 

purchase  and  preservation  of  Shakespeare's  home 
at  Strat  ford-on- A  von,  he  did  all  that  he  could  to 
help.  He  joined  a  company  of  distinguished 
amateurs  —  himself  the  star  —  and  they  gave  nine 
performances  in  provincial  towns,  realizing  over 
twenty-five  hundred  pounds. 

Two  other  little  Dickenses  —  Sidney  Smith  and 
Henry  Fielding  —  were  born  between  the  writing 
of  "  Dombey  "  and  "  Copperfield/'  and  their  ninth 
child,  httle  Dora,  came  during  the  writing  of 
"  David  Copperfield,"  shortly  after  the  death  of 
David's  Child-wife. 

Dickens  began  to  think  of  this  new  serial  some- 
time around  the  close  of  1848.  "  Dombey  "  had 
appeared  and  was  well  received.  It  was  Forster's 
proposition  that  this  novel  should  be  written  in  the 
first  person,  and,  acting  also  on  Forster's  hint, 
Dickens  decided  to  put  some  of  his  own  life  into 
the  pages.  Early  in  the  new  year  (1849)  he 
visited  Great  Yarmouth,  which  he  considered  one 
of  the  strangest  places  in  the  world  — "  One  hun- 
dred and  forty-six  miles  of  hill-less  marsh  between 
it  and  London,  ...  I  shall  certainly  try  my 
hand  at  it."  This  was  the  site  of  the  Peggottys 
home,  and  Dickens  actually  saw  the  old  boat  which 
these  simple  fishermen  turned  into  a  home. 

The  simplicity,  beauty,  and  truth  of  "  David 
Copperfield  "  is  especially  remarkable  at  this  period, 
for  the  great  world  was  beginning  to  recognize 
the  genial  qualities  of  the  "  Inimitable  Boz,"  as  he 


22)^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

was  often  called,  and  he  was  feted  by  everyone. 
This  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  it  tickled  his  vanity, 
and  his  besetting  sin  vv^as  vanity.  He  was  vain. of 
his  position,  of  his  work,  of  the  esteem  in  which 
he  was  held,  of  his  appearance,  which  was  always 
most  attractive,  of  the  very  clothes  he  wore,  and  his 
fondness  for  gaudy  colors  became  almost  a  personal 
trait;  but,  for  all  that,  he  was  as  simple  as  a  child 
when  it  came  to  writing  this  wonderful  story  of 
his  life,  and  we  have  already  seen  how  closely  en- 
twined was  the  little  boyhood  of  David  Copper  field 
and  that  of  Charles  Dickens. 

It  was  the  first  story  Dickens  ever  wrote  in  which 
his  young  hero  was  anything  more  than  a  figure  on 
which  to  hang  a  plot.  David's  personality  is  very- 
strong,  perhaps  because  we  know  his  origin.  At 
any  rate,  never  for  an  instant  do  we  forget  that 
David  moves  through  almost  every  incident,  not 
as  a  pleasing  background,  but  as  an  acting  force. 

Then,  too,  the  girls  who  figure  in  the  story  are 
drawn  with  a  skill  and  a  knowledge  which  show 
him  to  be  the  father  of  two  interesting  little  maids 
of  his  own.  They  were  quite  good-sized  girls  now, 
able  to  take  some  interest  in  their  father's  writing 
and  to  add  much  to  his  home  enjoyment,  for  Devon- 
shire Terrace  was  gay  with  much  company,  and 
dancing  and  music  often  wound  up  a  happy  even- 
ing. 

Twelfth  Night  —  the  birthday  of  young  Charles 
Dickens  —  was  always  celebrated  in  fine  style,  and 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  239 

on  one  occasion,  in  preparing  for  the  festivity, 
the  two  girls  undertook  to  teach  their  father  the 
Polka  step.  He  was  an  apt  pupil,  but  on  the  night 
before  the  party  he  had  a  wild  feeling  that  he  had 
forgotten  the  step.  It  was  very  cold  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning,  but  he  leaped  out  of  bed, 
and  practiced  it  to  his  heart's  content  —  in  the 
dark.  These  girls  of  his  were  a  continual  source 
of  delight  and  interest  to  him,  and  it  was  only 
natural  that  the  girl  faces  that  appeared  in  his 
books  should  be  fair  and  charming. 

There  was  always  something  pathetic  about  his 
girls.  There  seemed  always  in  their  young  lives 
some  hint  of  shadow.  There  was  for  instance  al- 
ways the  mist  of  the  sea  about  Little  Em'ly.  The 
fair  child  —  much  as  she  graced  the  quaint  old 
boat-home  —  seemed  always  in  spirit  on  the  beach, 
for  she  was  a  child  of  the  sea;  she  never  knew 
in  her  innocent  girlhood  what  lay  in  the  life  be- 
yond. Dazid,  in  describing  one  of  their  numerous 
walks,  speaks  of  her  fearlessness,  as  the  giant 
breakers  thundered  on  the  beach. 

"  *  I'm  not  afraid  of  it  this  way,'  said  little 
Em'ly.  '  But  I  wake  when  it  blows,  and  tremble 
to  think  of  Uncle  Dan  and  Ham,  and  believe  I 
hear  'em  crying  out  for  help.  .  .  .  But  I'm 
not  afraid  in  this  way.     Not  a  bit.     Look  here ! ' 

*'  She  started  from  my  side  and  ran  along  the 
jagged  timber  which  protruded  from  the  place  we 
stood  upon,  and  overhung  the  deep  water  at  some 


240  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

height  —  without  the  least  defense.  The  incident 
is  so  impressed  on  my  remembrance  that  if  I  were 
a  draughtsman,  I  could  draw  its  form  here,  I  dare 
say,  accurately  as  it  was  that  day,  and  little  Em'ly 
springing  forward  to  her  destruction  (as  it  ap- 
peared to  me),  with  a  look  I  have  never  forgotten, 
directed  far  out  to  sea. 

"  The  light,  bold,  fluttering  little  figure  turned 
and  came  back  safe  to  me,  and  I  soon  laughed  at  my 
fears,  and  the  cry  I  had  uttered  fruitlessly  in  any 
case,  for  there  was  no  one  near." 

Poor  Little  Em'ly,  with  her  pretty  face  and 
dainty  ways,  with  her  hope  some  day  of  being  a 
lady  —  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  if 
her  sure  foot  had  slipped  that  time,  and  the  huge 
breaker  had  wrapped  her  round  and  carried  her 
out  to  the  deep  sea  where  her  father  lay.  Later 
we  see  her  a  dainty  creature  in  the  first  flush  of 
innocent  girlhood,  such  a  charming  girl,  with  her 
blue  eyes  and  sunny  curls,  and  her  shy,  quiet  ways, 
the  promised  wife  of  her  brawny  cousin  Ham. 
And  last  of  all  we  see  the  pitiful  wreck  of  the  gay 
little  craft  —  the  broken,  sorrowful  young  woman, 
going  away  to  a  new  world  to  begin  a  new  life. 
A  brave  girl,  after  all,  was  Little  Em'ly,  willing 
to  live  her  poor  little  life  as  best  she  could. 

"  '  I  wonder  if  you  could  see  my  Em'ly  now, 
Mas'r  Davy,  whether  you'd  know  her,'  "  said  old 
Peggotty,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  his  old 
friends. 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  24I 

"  '  Is  she  so  altered  ?  '  I  inquired. 

"  *  I  doen't  know.  I  see  her  ev'ry  day  and  doen't 
know;  but  odd  times,  I  have  thowt  so.  A  slight 
figure/  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  the  fire, 
*  kiender  worn;  soft,  sorrowful  blue  eyes;  a  deli- 
cate face;  a  pritty  head  leaning  a  little  down;  a 
quiet  voice  and  way  —  timid  a'most.  That's 
Em'ly!' 

'' '.  ,  .  She  might  have  married  well  a  mort 
of  times,  *'  but,  Uncle,"  she  says  to  me,  "  that's 
gone  forever."  Cheerful  along  with  me ;  retired 
when  others  is  by;  fond  of  going  any  distance  fur 
to  teach  a  child,  or  fur  to  tend  a  sick  person,  or 
fur  to  do  some  kindness  towVd  a  young  girl's  wed- 
ding (and  she's  done  a-many,  but  has  never  seen 
one);  fondly  loving  of  her  uncle;  patient,  liked 
by  young  and  old ;  sowt  out  by  all  that  has  any 
trouble.     That's  Em'ly.' " 

Another  picture,  an  exquisite  miniature,  rises  be- 
fore us.  A  girl  so  young,  she  seemed  indeed  a 
child.  A  veritable  fairy  was  Dora  Spenlow,  an 
angel  in  blue  with  golden  ringlets  and  blue  eyes. 
Could  anyone  help  falling  in  love  with  her  ?  Could 
David,  who  always  fell  captive  to  every  beautiful 
face?  But  this  was  more  than  a  passing  fancy. 
Little  Dora  held  him  fast  by  a  silken  thread,  so 
strong  that  only  death  could  break  it.  David  had 
married  a  child,  a  sweet,  lovely,  lovable  child, 
whose  greatest  joy  was  to  *'  help "  him,  as  she 
fondly  imagined,  by  sitting  on  a  low  stool  beside 


242  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

him  and  holding  his  pens.  That  solemn  duty  over, 
she  would  romp  with  Jip,  her  spaniel,  and  blunder 
over  her  simple  housekeeping  in  the  most  adorable 
manner.  David  loved  her  as  a  pretty  plaything, 
but  her  little  head  with  its  wealth  of  golden  curls 
held  nothing  beyond  a  few  loving  thoughts  which 
she  lavished  upon  "  Doady,"  as  she  called  him. 

There  are  many  Doras  in  the  world,  gay  little 
trifling  Doras,  who  dance  through  it  without  a 
care,  and  somehow  when  they  go  out  of  it,  as  Dora 
did,  there  is  a  great  aching  void,  much  bigger  than 
the  space  they  filled  in  life.  For  memory  twines 
forget-me-nots,  and  Dora's  betrothal  ring  was 
made  of  forget-me-nots,  as  if  anyone  could  for- 
get the  darling  child.  Even  when  she  faded  be- 
fore his  eyes,  she  left  a  shaft  of  light  in  her  van- 
ishing. 

Dickens  spared  no  pains  with  this  dainty  minia- 
ture. "  Little  Blossom,"  as  David's  aunt.  Miss 
Betsey  Trotvjood,  called  her,  bloomed  for  a  short 
while,  drooped  and  faded,  and  finally  died.  But 
we  will  remember  her  as  we  remember  all  frail 
and  beautiful  things.  Yet  while  we  are  sorry  that 
David  was  left  desolate  in  his  youth,  we  cannot 
help  thinking  that  it  was  the  best  thing  Dora  could 
have  done. 

''  ^  Oh,  Doady,'  "  she  said  as  she  lay  dying  be- 
fore him,  her  golden  hair  spread  out  upon  her 
pillow  like  an  aureole,  "  '  after  more  years,  you 
never  could  have  loved  your  child-wife  better  than 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  243 

you  do;  and  after  more  years,  she  would  have  so 
tried  and  disappointed  you,  that  you  might  not 
have  been  able  to  love  her  half  so  well!  I  know 
I  was  too  young  and  foolish.  It  is  much  better  as 
it  is!'" 

And  so  it  was,  for  there  was  Agnes!  It  is 
rather  difficult  to  describe  Agnes.  We  can  best 
do  so  in  David's  own  words,  for  his  acquaintance 
with  her  dated  from  the  days  of  his  little  boyhood, 
when  he  went  to  Dr.  Strong's  School,  and  boarded 
with  Mr.  Wick  field,  Agnes's  father. 

"  Mr.  Wickfield  tapped  at  the  door  in  a  corner 
of  the  paneled  wall,  and  a  girl  of  about  my  own 
age  came  out  and  kissed  him.  On  her  face  I  saw 
immediately  the  placid,  sweet  expression  of  the 
lady  whose  picture  had  looked  at  me  downstairs. 
It  seemed  to  my  imagination  as  if  the  portrait  had 
grown  womanly,  and  the  original  remained  a  child. 
Although  her  face  was  quite  bright  and  happy,  there 
was  a  tranquillity  about  it  and  about  her,  a  quiet, 
good,  calm  spirit  that  I  have  never  forgotten;  that 
I  never  shall  forget. 

"...  I  cannot  call  to  mind  where  or  when, 
in  my  childhood,  I  had  seen  a  stained  glass  window 
in  a  church.  Nor  do  I  recollect  its  subject.  But 
I  know  that  when  I  saw  her  turn  round  in  the  grave 
light  of  the  old  staircase  and  wait  for  us  above,  1 
thought  of  that  window;  and  that  I  associated 
something  of  its  tranquil  brightness  with  Agnes 
Wickfield  ever  afterward." 


244  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Through  the  story  this  calm  presence  is  ahvays 
with  us.  Always  cheerful,  there  was  yet  some- 
thing pathetic  in  the  lonely  girlhood  of  Agnes 
Wickfield.  In  drawing  a  character  such  as  this, 
Dickens  should  have  given  her  companions ;  in- 
stead, she  lived  in  the  old  house  with  an  elderly 
father,  full  of  memories  and  forebodings,  and  with 
no  girls  of  her  own  age  to  share  her  girlish 
thoughts.  It  is  little  wonder  then  that  Agnes  — 
even  at  her  youngest  —  seems  quite  grown-up,  and 
quite  natural  that  David,  always  looking  up  to  her 
in  boyhood,  should  think  of  her  later  on  as  quite 
beyond  his  reach.  Yet  when  sorrow  touched  him, 
there  was  Agnes,  ready  to  console;  when  joy  came 
to  him,  she  smiled  in  sympathy,  and  in  the  crown- 
ing moment  she  came  to  him  as  naturally  and 
simply  as  if  her  place  had  always  been  by  his  side. 

'' '  Dearest  husband ! '  "  she  said  on  their  wed- 
ding-day, .  .  .  "  '  I  have  one  more  thing  to 
tell  you.' 

"  *  Let  me  hear  it,  love.' 

"  *  It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died. 
She  sent  you  for  me/ 

" '  She  did.' 

"  *  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.  Can 
you  think  what  it  was  ?  ' 

"  I  believed  I  could.  I  drew  the  wife  who  had 
so  long  loved  me,  closer  to  my  side. 

"  '  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to 
me,  and  left  me  a  last  charge.' 


THE  GIRLS  OF  DICKENS'S  DAY.  245 

"  *  And  it  was  — ' 

"  *  That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place/ 
And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast  and  wept ; 
and  I  wept  with  her,  though  we  were  so  happy." 

"  David  Copperfield  "  was  published  in  Novem- 
ber, 1850,  and  early  in  the  following  year  Mrs. 
Dickens  and  little  Baby  Dora  were  very  ill.  In 
March  the  baby  seemed  to  be  all  right,  but  her 
mother  —  still  delicate  —  was  sent  to  Great 
Malvern,  to  get  back  her  strength,  leaving  her 
husband  to  care  for  the  children.  During  her 
absence  John  Dickens  died,  and  was  buried  on 
April  fifth,  so  the  author  was  in  the  midst  of 
trouble,  but,  never  neglecting  his  public  duties,  he 
agreed  to  preside  at  the  General  Theatrical  Fund 
Dinner.     In  a  letter  to  Thomas  Mitton  he  wrote : 

"  I  played  with  little  Dora  before  I  went,  and 
was  told  when  I  left  the  chair  that  she  had  died 
in  a  moment." 

The  news  was  kept  from  Dickens  until  after  he 
had  made  his  speech,  and  then  his  friends  — 
Forster  and  Mark  Lemon  —  broke  it  to  him  as  best 
they  could. 

In  an  interesting  article  on  this  subject,  there  is 
published  a  beautiful  letter  from  Dickens  to  his 
wife,  to  prepare  her  for  the  sorrow  awaiting  her 
at  home.     He  says  in  conclusion: 

"  I   cannot   close   without   putting  the   strongest 
entreaty   and   injunction  upon   you   to   come   with 
17 


246  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

perfect  composure,  to  remember  what  I  have  often 
told  you,  that  we  can  never  expect  to  be  exempt 
as  to  our  many  children,  from  the  afflictions  of 
other  parents,  and  that  if  when  you  come  I  should 
even  have  to  say  to  you,  "  Our  little  baby  is  dead," 
you  are  also  to  do  your  duty  to  the  rest,  and  to 
show  yourself  worthy  of  the  great  trust  you  hold 
in  them.  If  you  will  only  read  this  steadily,  I 
have  a  perfect  confidence  in  your  doing  what  is 
right. 

"  Ever  Affectionately, 
"  Charles  Dickens." 

Then  follows  a  prayer  written  in  the  watches 
of  that  sad  night,  which  he  also  sent  her,  a  prayer 
on  Resignation,  which  shows  the  deep  religious 
streak  in  Dickens's  character.  Little  Dora's  death 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  happy  feeling  of  work  well 
done,  which  "  David  Copperfield "  naturally  in- 
spired, but  Dickens  was  not  one  to  brood  over 
these  inevitable  trials.  He  had  so  much  to  live 
for — 'with  his  wife,  his  blooming  family,  his  still 
vigorous  manhood  —  for  he  was  only  thirty-nine  — 
and  his  ever  increasing  fame,  that  he  could  not 
well  repine. 

The  years  had  brought  their  changes,  among 
them  the  death  of  his  beloved  sister  Fanny,  but 
there  was  work  to  do  and  the  will  to  do  it,  the 
strong,  indomitable  will,  which  was  the  secret  of 
his  genius  and  success. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


LITTLE    HOUSEKEEPERS    IN    DICKENS-LAND. 

IN  the  life  of  Charles  Dickens  there  were 
two  or  three  ruling  passions.  His  love 
of  Christmas  we  have  seen;  his  love  of 
animals  was  w^ell-known;  but  his  love 
of  home  was  beyond  all  words.  No  matter  w^here 
his  restless  feet  carried  him,  into  what  strange  and 
foreign  countries  they  might  journey,  wherever 
they  rested  was  home,  and  the  vision  of  home 
brightened  all  the  best  of  his  books.  Consequently 
his  pictures  of  girls  are  always  fairest  when  they 
emerge  from  the  background  of  home. 

It  may  be  a  pretty  home,  or  a  sordid  poverty- 
stricken  hole  in  the  wall ;  it  may  be  in  two  rooms  — 
it  may  be  in  ten  —  these  are  mere  outward  circum- 
stances. Home  is  where  the  hearth  is,  and  the 
little  housekeepers  who  carried  their  keys  jingling 
in  a  small  basket  were  the  fairy  spirits  of  hom.e. 

Sometimes,  alas!  housekeeping  was  reduced  to 
such  a  slender  portion  of  the  day's  work  that  there 
was  not  even  a  cupboard  to  which  a  key  could  be 
fitted ;  when  the  poor  provisions  w^ent  straight  from 
the  small  venders  into  the  hungry  mouths;  where 
''  setting  things  to  rights  "  meant  shaking  up  the 

247 


248  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

poor  beds,  dusting  the  rickety  furniture,  and  letting 
the  sunshine  in  through  the  cracked  window-panes. 
But  Dickens's  Httle  heroines  had  a  certain  grace  in 
doing  these  things,  a  certain  neatness  and  deftness 
which  made  them  \ery  attractive,  no  matter  how 
poor  they  were.  Dickens  himself  was  peculiarly 
neat  and  deft  —  he  hated  disorder;  his  own  belong- 
ings were  always  scrupulously  tidy,  and  the  home 
with  its  hearth  brushed,  its  kettle  on  the  hob,  its 
air  of  human  comfort,  was  always  delightful  to 
write  about,  and  in  all  of  his  stories  his  girls  were 
excellent  housekeepers. 

Kate  Nickleby  was  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
pretty  cottage  to  which  Nicholas  brought  poor 
Smike,  and  the  forlorn  boy  used  to  lie  and  watch 
her  flitting  about  her  daily  womanly  duties  in  the 
little  home,  with  a  world  of  pathos  in  his  eyes. 
Dickens  dearly  loved  to  add  a  touch  of  comfort 
to  the  home  life:  the  glow  of  the  fire;  the  com- 
fortable chair;  in  the  background  the  table  set  for 
the  coming  meal;  and  the  graceful  figure  of  a 
girl  moving  quickly  in  the  energy  of  "  getting " 
supper  or  dinner,  was  a  pleasing  addition  to  the 
picture.  Little  Nell  never  had  her  chance,  but  she 
had  the  home  instinct  and  would  have  made  an 
ideal  housekeeper;  for  wherever  the  two  poor  wan- 
derers chanced  to  rest,  there  for  the  moment  was 
home,  as  cheerful  and  comfortable  as  circumstances 
could  make  it,  even  though  on  the  morrow  they 
might   shoulder  their  bundles  and  trudge  on.     In 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.      249 

the  schoolmaster's  small,  mean  house  her  fairy  pres- 
ence was  good  to  feel,  and,  had  she  stayed  longer, 
she  would  have  brought  the  charm  of  home  within 
those  humble  walls. 

To  the  Marchioness,  indeed,  was  given  her  oppor- 
tunity. She  made  of  Dick  SzviveUer's  poor  room 
a  perfect  paradise  of  coziness  and  comfort.  Her 
little  ill-kempt,  awkward  person  flew  about  this  lim- 
ited space,  and  brought  order  out  of  chaos.  There 
w^ere  no  jingling  keys,  to  be  sure  —  she  had  done 
W'ith  keys  and  keyholes  when  she  left  the  Brass's  — 
but  the  capable  air  of  the  small  servant  dispelled 
any  doubts  as  to  her  housekeeping,  and  when  Dick 
Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  at  last  upon  the  cheerful 
fire  (there  was  always  a  cheerful  fire)  and  the  air 
of  cleanliness  and  comfort  all  about  him,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  he  cried  for  very  gratitude. 

Gay,  inconsequent  Dolly  Varden  was  not  much 
of  a  housekeeper,  though  she  was  given  to  bright- 
ening every  place  with  her  sweet  young  presence, 
and  doubtless  when  she  became  the  landlady  of  the 
Maypole  Inn  her  keys  actually  did  jingle  in  the 
basket  which  she  carried  on  her  plump  arm. 

Was  there  ever  a  more  lovable  little  housekeeper 
than  Ruth  Pinch,  and  was  there  ever  a  nicer  per- 
son to  keep  house  for  than  Brother  Tom!  She 
didn't  know  much,  to  be  sure,  and  he  knew  less; 
but  the  bare  little  place  with  its  poor  furniture  was 
neat  as  wax,  and  it  was  home,  besides,  their  own 
home,   a  refuge  they  had  not  known  for  many  a 


250  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

long  year.  And  what  does  it  matter,  after  all, 
where  one  lives  —  and  how,  if  love  is  there,  smil- 
ing at  one's  elbow  during  the  creation  of  a  pudding? 

History  does  not  record  the  fact,  but  beyond 
doubt  Dickens  must  have  been  a  skilled  cook.  He 
knew  all  the  little  twists  and  turns,  and  of  one 
thing  we  may  be  certain;  he  could  have  cooked 
the  Cratchifs  Christmas  pudding  as  well  as  Mrs. 
C  rat  chit  herself. 

Mrs.  Dot  was  a  finished  housekeeper;  she  seemed 
to  know  by  instinct  the  sort  of  coziness  her  big, 
tired  Carrier  most  appreciated.  There  was  the 
home  and  the  hearth,  of  course,  and  undoubtedly 
the  Cricket  lightened  the  cares  of  housekeeping, 
while  the  Baby  lent  the  finishing  touch  to  the  pic- 
ture, though  pretty,  plump  Mrs.  Dot  was  but  a 
child  in  years,  herself.  Was  there  anything  more 
cheerful  than  the  glow  of  that  fire,  the  singing  of 
that  Kettle,  and  the  chirping  of  that  Cricket?  And 
all  because  Mrs.  Dot  knew  how  to  keep  house. 
There  was  a  cold  joint  if  we  remember,  and  many 
other  things  a  hungry  man  might  like  on  a  cold  night 
after  a  long  drive,  and  they  both  blessed  the 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  though  it  is  our  private 
and  truthful  opinion  that  it  wasn't  the  Cricket  at 
all  —  he  found  that  hearth  very  comfortable  and 
cozy  and  home-like  —  and  it  was  all  Mrs.  Dofs 
doing ! 

Florence  Domhey  was  very  inexperienced  as  a 
housekeeper.     It  was  only  when  she  ran  away  from 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       25 1 

home  to  the  sign  of  the  "  Little  Midshipman  "  that 
she  began  to  show  any  talent  in  that  direction. 
She  took  the  reins  from  clumsy  old  Captain  Cuttle, 
and  almost  imperceptibly  the  home  of  the  old  instru- 
ment-maker took  on  a  more  ship-shape  expression. 
It  was  only  a  dainty  touch  here  and  there,  but  it 
worked  wonders,  and  Florence  was  being  trained 
in  the  right  sort  of  school  to  become  the  wife  of 
a  poor  man. 

''  David  Copperfield  "  bristles  with  housekeepers, 
young  and  old.  First  of  all  there  is  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge,  that  "  lone,  lorn  critter  "  who  lived  in  the 
Peggottys'  house-boat,  and  w^ept  quarts  of  tears 
over  her  excellent  cooking,  and  kept  the  living- 
room  clean  and  tidy;  but  Little  Em'ly  was  the 
spirit  of  that  simple  home,  and,  when  all  is  told,  it 
is  the  spirit  of  the  thing  one  has  to  do  which  counts 
for  most. 

And  so  with  the  housekeeping  Dickens  describes. 
What  makes  it  so  attractive  is  the  spirit  of  it;  food 
tastes  better  if  seasoned  with  good  humor,  and  the 
little  housekeepers  he  wrote  about  invariably 
brought  smiles  to  their  tasks.  Dora  danced 
through  her  few  domestic  duties.  She  did  not 
accomplish  much  beyond  the  fascinating  jingling 
of  her  keys,  but  her  sunny  temper  sweetened  even 
the  failures,  and  David  smiled  indulgently  at  his 
child-wife. 

Agnes  was  the  good  genius  of  home.  Every- 
thing she  touched  shone  with  a  quiet  radiance  — 


252  CHi^RLES  DICKENS. 

everything  breathed  of  her  serene  presence.  Her 
keys  were  magic  ones,  and  all  who  came  within 
her  spell  partook  of  the  generous  warmth  she  man- 
aged to  shed  around  her. 

Three  years  intervened  between  the  publication 
of  "  David  Copperfield  "  and  "  Bleak  House/'  Dick- 
ens's next  important  story ;  three  busy  years  which 
saw  the  beginning  of  Household  Words,  his  new 
venture  in  the  editorial  line,  for  he  was  editor-in- 
chief,  and  kept  the  post  in  spite  of  interruptions, 
for  several  years,  contributing  much  material  in 
weekly  writing.  "  The  Child's  History  of  Eng- 
land," written  for  his  children,  was  also  published 
in  this  interval,  and  last,  but  not  least,  his  seventh 
son  and  tenth  child,  Edward  Bulwer-Lytton  Dick- 
ens, was  born,  March  13,  1852. 

There  was  another  important  change  in  his  life, 
and  that  was  his  removal  from  Devonshire  Ter- 
race, and  the  purchase  of  Tavistock  House,  a  much 
larger  and  more  stately  home. 

"  Bleak  House  "  first  appeared  number  by  num- 
ber, its  usual  form,  and  was  read  with  the  deepest 
interest  by  the  public,  for  it  was  the  tale  of  a  suit 
in  Chancery,  involving  a  vast  fortune  which  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  law,  under  the  guise  of  Equity. 
The  chief  attraction  which  "  Bleak  House  "  would 
naturally  possess  for  any  girl  reader  would  be  the 
very  youthful  element  running  through  the  story, 
the  very  delightful  home  center  which  Bleak  House 
became,  and,  above  all,  the  dear  little  housekeeper 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       253 

with  her  basket  of  jingHng  keys,  who  flitted  through 
the  quaint  old-fashioned  place.  "  Dear  Dame 
Durden  "  her  Guardian  called  her,  though  her  real 
name  was  Esther  Summers  on,  and  on  the  happy 
morning  of  her  arrival  at  Bleak  House  she  received 
the  household  keys  in  the  inevitable  little  basket, 
and  became  the  gentle,  ministering  spirit  in  the 
rambling,  irregular,  delightful  Bleak  House,  of 
which  Mr.  Jarndyce  (a  descendant  of  the  famous 
Jarndyce  vs.  Jarndyce)  was  the  genial  elderly 
master. 

This  dear  old  bachelor's  seclusion  was  invaded 
by  three  young  people  all  at  once.  They  were  Ada 
Clare  and  Richard  Carstone,  wards  in  Chancery, 
and  Esther  came  as  a  companion  to  the  pretty  Ada. 
Of  this  interesting  trio,  Mr.  Jarndyce  was  the 
chosen  Guardian,  and  it  was  he  who  sent  the  keys 
by  a  maid  to  Miss  Summerson.  There  were  two 
bunches  all  labeled. 

"  *  For  you,  miss,'  said  the  maid. 

"'For  me?'  said  I  [Esther  writes  this  in  nar- 
rative form]. 

'*  *  The  housekeeping  keys,  miss.' 

"  I  showed  my  surprise,  for  she  added  with  some 
little  surprise  on  her  own  part :  '  I  was  told  to  bring 
them  to  you  as  soon  as  you  was  alone.  Miss  —  Miss 
Summerson,  if  I  don't  deceive  myself.' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  I,  '  that  is  my  name.' 

"  '  The  large  bunch  is  the  housekeeping,  and  the 
little  bunch  is  the  cellars,  miss.     Any  time  you  was 


254  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

pleased  to  appoint  to-morrow  morning,  I  was  to 
show  you  the  presses  and  things  they  belong 
to.' 

"  I  said  I  would  be  ready  at  half  past  six;  and, 
after  she  was  gone,  stood  looking  at  the  basket, 
quite  lost  in  the  magnitude  of  my  trust.  Ada  found 
me  thus,  and  had  such  a  delightful  confidence  in 
me  when  I  showed  her  the  keys  and  told  her  about 
them  that  it  would  have  been  insensibility  and  in- 
gratitude not  to  feel  encouraged." 

So  Dame  Durden  took  over  the  pleasant  respon- 
sibilities of  housekeeping  in  a  home  where  every- 
thing was  arranged  in  the  most  agreeable  manner. 

The  two  girls  had  charming  bedrooms,  with  a 
cozy  sitting-room  between,  furnished  in  green, 
while  upon  the  walls,  framed  and  glazed,  were 
"  numbers  of  surprising  and  surprised  birds,  staring 
out  of  pictures  at  a  real  trout  in  a  case,  as  brown 
and  shining  as  if  it  had  been  served  with  gravy. 
.  .  .  In  my  room  there  were  oval  engravings 
of  the  months;  ladies  haymaking  in  short  waists, 
and  large  hats  tied  under  the  chin,  for  June ;  smooth- 
legged  noblemen  pointing  —  with  cocked  hats  —  to 
village  steeples,  for  October."  Altogether  a  quaint, 
old-fashioned  and  charming  room,  as  quaint  and 
charming  as  the  master  of  the  house,  who  gave 
himself  a  terrible,  ferocious  character,  called  his 
cheerful,  home-like  den,  "  the  Growlery,"  and  bade 
them  all  to  beware  of  his  temper,  especially  when 
the  wind  blew  east,  showing  how  he  laughed  in  his 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.      255 

sleeve  at  those  people  who  are  always  making  the 
weather  and  the  winds  an  excuse  for  their  bad 
tempers. 

Did  ever  poor  lonely  girl  find  such  a  haven  as 
Esther  Summerson  found  in  Bleak  House!  And, 
with  the  exception  of  the  CJieeryble  Brothers,  was 
there  ever  such  a  lovable  man  as  Esther" s  Guardian, 
and  was  it  any  wonder  that  the  girl  bloomed  into 
a  beautiful  young  woman.  Oh!  how  the  keys  jin- 
gled as  Dame  Burden  went  demurely  about  her 
work,  and  how  often  the  fine  old  Guardian  would 
steal  out  of  the  ''  Growlery  "  to  watch  her  as  she 
passed. 

It  is  a  sweet  stor}^  of  home  —  this  "Bleak 
House,"  and  the  evil  doings  of  Chancery  Court 
seem  very  far  away  from  the  peaceful  seclusion 
of  the  quaint  mansion.  Here  Esther  lived  con- 
tented year  after  year,  while  the  tangled  meshes 
of  the  intricate  plot  drew  her  at  last  into  the  shadow 
—  but  only  for  a  while,  for  she  emerged  into  the 
light  again,  a  proud  and  happy  woman. 

In  ''  Bleak  House  "  we  have  many  glimpses  of 
home  life,  not  always  so  charming  as  the  life  at 
Mr.  Jarndyce's,  but  interesting  because  of  the  con- 
trast and  the  unspoken  sermons  that  haunted  the 
four  walls. 

Take  the  Jellyhys  for  instance,  where  Esther  and 
Ada  Clare  stopped  during  the  Court  session,  before 
they  went  to  Bleak  House.  Mrs.  Jellyhy  was  a 
great  philanthropist,  and  all  her  thoughts  were  cen- 


256  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

tered  on  the  Africans  and  how  to  help  them,  and  all 
her  time  was  taken  up  in  corresponding  with  public 
bodies  and  private  individuals,  while  the  Jellyby 
household  went  to  rack  and  ruin. 

When  the  two  young  ladies  first  entered  this 
beautiful  home,  they  were  ushered  into  the  room, 
Esther  tells  us  — "  which  was  strewn  with  papers 
and  nearly  filled  by  a  great  writing-table  covered 
with  similar  litter  .  .  .  not  only  very  untidy, 
but  very  dirty.     .     .     ." 

What  principally  struck  them  was  the  jaded- 
looking,  tired  girl  "  who  sat  at  the  writing-table, 
biting  the  feather  of  her  pen  and  staring  at  us.  I 
suppose  nobody  was  ever  in  such  a  state  of  ink. 
And  from  her  tumbled  hair  to  her  pretty  feet  — 
which  were  disfigured  with  frayed  and  broken  satin 
slippers,  trodden  down  at  heel  —  she  really  seemed 
to  have  no  article  of  dress  upon  her  from  a  pin  up- 
wards that  was  in  its  proper  condition  or  its  right 
place." 

Mrs.  Jellyhy's  housekeeping  was  certainly  a  trial 
to  the  flesh,  and  poor  Caddy,  the  tired  daughter, 
was  really  too  tired  to  lend  a  hand  or  care.  She 
was  a  nice  girl,  but  she  was  wearied  with  writing 
letters  for  her  mother  about  clothing  and  housing 
the  Africans,  when  their  own  clothes  were  in  tatters, 
and  their  own  house  not  fit  to  live  in.  Caddy  felt 
these  things  as  she  glanced  at  the  fresh,  dainty- 
looking  girls,  and  wondered  why  they  came  there. 
When  the  two  guests  were  shown  to  their  rooms, 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.      257 

they  found  them  bare  and  disorderly.  Caddy 
escorted  them. 

" '  You  would  like  some  hot  water,  wouldn't 
you?'  said  Miss  Jellyby,  looking  round  for  a  jug 
with  a  handle  to  it,  but  looking  in  vain." 

But  there  was  no  hot  water  and  nothing  to  put 
it  in,  and  it  was  altogether  cold  and  cheerless  and 
wretched.  There  was  a  whole  troop  of  little  Jelly- 
hys,  "  and  our  attention  was  distracted  by  the  con- 
stant apparition  of  noses  and  fingers  in  situations 
of  danger  between  the  hinges  of  the  doors.  It  was 
impossible  to  shut  the  door  of  either  room;  for  my 
lock,  with  no  knob  to  it,  looked  as  if  it  wanted  to 
be  wound  up,  and  though  the  handle  of  x\da's  went 
round  and  round  with  the  greatest  smoothness,  it 
was  attended  with  no  effect  whatever  on  the  door. 
Therefore,  I  proposed  to  the  children  that  they 
should  come  in  and  be  very  good  at  my  table,  and 
I  would  tell  them  the  story  of  '  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood '  while  I  dressed." 

Downstairs  they  went  again  to  the  discomfort  of 
a  smoking  fire,  but  Mrs.  Jellyby  only  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  smiled  good-naturedly,  and  went  on 
writing  letters  about  Africa,  while  her  guests  choked 
and  coughed  in  the  room  beyond. 

Richard  Car  stone,  who  was  also  one  of  the  Jarn- 
dyce  wards,  had  a  room  upstairs,  and  his  experi- 
ence was  rather  amusing;  he  had  washed  his  hands 
in  a  pie-dish,  and  the  missing  kettle  had  been  found 
on  his  dressing-table. 


258  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

They  went  downstairs  to  dinner  very  carefully, 
for  the  stair  carpets  were  so  torn  that  they  were 
dangerous.  The  dinner  —  Esther  tells  us  —  would 
have  been  excellent  had  it  been  well  cooked,  but 
it  was  almost  raw,  and  it  was  rather  discouraging 
to  find  a  missing  dish  of  potatoes  tucked  away  in 
the  coal  scuttle. 

All  the  little  Jellyhys  took  to  the  newcomers. 
Peepy,  the  baby,  would  not  leave  Esther's  lap ;  poor 
little  fellow,  she  probably  gave  him  his  very  first 
"  mothering,"  as  Mrs.  Jellyby  was  too  much  inter- 
ested in  the  welfare  of  the  little  Africans  to  have 
time  for  anything  else;  if  Peepy  had  been  a  little 
African,  he  would  have  fared  better. 

Esther  and  Ada  gathered  the  children  aroimd 
them  after  dinner,  and  while  Mrs.  Jellyby  went  on 
writing  letters,  the  girls  whispered  the  story  of 
Puss-in-Boots  to  the  youngsters  in  the  corner. 
Esther  carried  Peepy  upstairs  to  bed,  while  the 
slovenly  servant  *'  charged  into  the  midst  of  the 
little  family,  like  a  dragon,  and  turned  them  into 
cribs,"  and  when  the  tired  girls  sought  their  own 
beds  at  midnight,  they  left  Mrs.  Jellyby  "  among 
her  papers,  drinking  coffee,  and  Miss  Jellyby  biting 
the  feather  of  her  pen." 

Dickens  was  a  wonderful  artist,  and,  though  he 
rarely  painted  a  landscape,  his  interiors  were  always 
exceptionally  good,  and  this  picture  of  bad  house- 
keeping was  surely  enough  to  make  one  shudder. 
He  often  showed  us  poor  housekeeping,  where  the 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       259 

small  housekeeper  made  the  most  of  her  meager 
surroundings,  but  Mrs.  Jellyby,  or  more  properly 
poor  Caddy,  could  have  made  a  happy  home  for 
the  little  Jellyhys,  if  her  wishes  had  been  granted 
and  Africa  had  been  blotted  from  the  map. 

There  was  another  little  housekeeper  in  this  same 
book;  her  name  was  Charlotte  Neckett,  familiarly 
known  as  Charley,  and  she  lived  up  "  three-pair 
back "  in  a  room  that  hugged  the  roof,  and  she 
was  only  thirteen  —  and  she  went  out  washing  by 
the  day  —  and  she  took  care  of  a  tiny  brother  and 
sister,  for  they  were  orphans. 

The  room  was  poor  and  bare,  and  the  food  was 
often  scarce,  but  Charley  had  just  that  knack  which 
Dickens  loved  so  in  his  girls ;  her  capable  hands 
wxre  never  idle,  and  there  was  an  air  of  home  even 
in  the  poor  garret,  with  its  one  chair  and  its  big 
uncomfortable  bed.  And  how  she  cared  for  the 
two  children!  It  was  beautiful  to  see  her,  for 
Dickens  made  these  poor  little  hard-working  girls 
of  flesh  and  blood,  and  beside  them  his  other  girls 
looked  like  shadowy  little  creatures. 

But  we  must  not  forget  that,  in  writing  of  girls, 
Dickens  had  only  a  few  types  from  which  to  choose. 
With  him,  it  was  either  the  good  little  angel  —  too 
good  almost  —  or  the  little  slavey,  or  the  pretty, 
plump,  middle-class  little  maid,  who  happened  to 
have  a  perfect  genius  for  housekeeping.  The  little 
narrow-chested  girls  of  his  period  had  no  tennis  to 
broaden  them,  no  rowing,  no  basket-ball,  no  golf. 


26o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

They  were  simply  little  home  bodies,  whose  mission 
it  was  to  make  happiness,  to  find  a  suitable  mate, 
to  marry,  and  to  have  a  family. 

In  rapid  succession  throughout  his  other  books 
Dickens  has  introduced  us  to  innumerable  girls, 
whose  charm  has  endured  all  these  years  —  even  to 
this  day,  when  the  athletic,  vigorous,  brainy  young 
girl  puts  the  quiet  home-mouse  to  shame.  There 
is  an  atmosphere  of  sweet  lavender  about  these  little 
heroines  of  long  ago,  while  the  jingle  of  their  key- 
basket  is  a  sound  we  like  to  hear. 

In  1854  "  Hard  Times  "  was  published  in  weekly 
installments  in  Household  Words.  It  was  a  very 
grave  and  serious  story,  a  tragedy  of  the  poor, 
whose  cause  Dickens  always  championed.  In 
Louisa  Gradgrind  and  Sissy  Jiipe  we  have  a  curious 
contrast  of  little  girlhood;  the  one  brought  up  on 
Facts,  the  other  living  in  the  glare  of  a  traveling 
"two-penny"  circus.  No  housekeeping  keys  jin- 
gled in  the  little  baskets  of  either,  for  Sissy  had  no 
home,  and  Louisa  lived  only  behind  four  walls, 
where  everything  was  classified,  and  where  the  least 
human  emotion  had  a  pin  stuck  through  it  and  was 
popped  into  a  cabinet. 

Sissy,  on  the  other  hand,  lived  on  her  little  emo- 
tions ;  true  —  her  father  was  only  a  clown,  but  he 
was  very  good  to  the  little  girl,  and,  though  she 
never  saw  him  after  he  disappeared  from  Coketown, 
he  was  always  in  her  memory.  She  it  was  who  en- 
tered the  Gradgrind's  home,  where  hard  facts  were 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       261 

the  only  emotions,  and  the  beating  of  her  warm 
little  heart  was  heard  through  the  stone  walls.  Her 
real  name  was  Cecilia  Jupe;  her  friends  called  her 
Sissy  and  Mr.  Gradgrind  always  said  Jitpe,  as  he 
considered  Sissy  no  name  at  all,  and  Cecilia  too 
high-sounding  and  sentimental.  But  somehow  or 
other  the  sweet  presence  of  this  little  girl  was  the 
only  light  in  this  sorrowful  story.  She  became  in 
truth  the  capable  housekeeper  of  the  Gradgrind 
establishment  —  the  only  hearty  and  wholesome 
creature  within  it. 

"  Hard  Times  "  was  short,  but  it  was  powerful 
enough  to  be  a  masterpiece.  Dickens  wrote  it 
from  his  heart,  and  it  reached  thousands  of  readers 
through  Household  Words, 

Our  next  little  housekeeper  grew  up  in  the  shadow 
of  a  prison  wall,  the  old  Marshalsea  prison,  which 
Dickens  had  cause  to  know  so  well.  "  Little  Dor- 
rit'"was  the  title  of  his  next  book,  and  the  name 
by  which  his  charming  heroine  was  known  among 
her  friends  and  within  the  prison  itself,  where  she 
was  born. 

A  poor  house  to  keep  was  this  bare  debtor's 
prison,  where  her  father  had  dwelt  for  three  and 
twenty  years,  but  it  was  the  only  home  Little  Dorrit 
had  ever  known,  and  she  managed  to  bring  a  bit  of 
her  own  quiet  sunshine  into  the  dingy  rooms. 
Everything  that  love  and  sacrifice  could  do  was  done 
for  the  broken  old  man,  her  father,  and  when  sud- 
den, imexpected  wealth  unlocked  their  prison  doors, 
18 


262  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

she  was  always  the  same  quiet,  helpful,  home  child, 
always  hovering  near  her  father,  sparing  him  when 
she  could,  creating  around  him  the  atmosphere  of 
home  wherever  they  went. 

A  quiet,  uneventful  life  would  have  been  the 
portion  of  Amy  Dorrit  if  she  had  not  lived  in  a 
Story  —  but,  being  in  a  Story,  and  one  of  Dickens's 
stories,  she  had  to  be  mixed  up  in  a  Plot,  though 
her  own  faithful  heart  throbbed  just  the  same  be- 
hind the  walls  of  the  Marshalsea,  or  in  the  gilded 
elegance  of  the  foreign  hotels  where  Fanny  Dorrit, 
the  elder  sister,  always  liked  to  settle. 

Arthur  Clennam,  the  middle-aged  hero  —  and 
very  old  for  his  age  he  was,  too  —  was  a  man  who 
all  his  life  had  hungered  for  love.  He  was  a  young 
man  still,  as  years  count  —  what  are  forty  years  to 
vigorous  manhood  —  but  life  had  been  grave  for 
him;  he  had  not  lived  in  prison,  it  is  true,  but  for 
darkness  and  dreariness  the  Clennam  mansion  might 
have  come  close  to  the  Marshalsea,  and  that  he  and 
Little  Dorrit,  of  all  people,  should  have  come 
together,  seemed  a  most  wonderful  and  unheard-of 
thing;  but  then  Dickens  was  a  wizard,  and  wizards 
can  do  remarkable  things,  and  Little  Dorrit  being 
made  to  love  and  console,  and  a  born  housekeeper 
into  the  bargain,  why,  what  more  natural  than  this 
pretty  love  story  of  the  Marshalsea. 

There  is  another  girl  in  "  Little  Dorrit "  who  in- 
terests us  keenly ;  a  turbulent,  fly-away  bit  of  passion, 
resentful  of  the  fact  that  she  was  only  a  foundling. 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       263 

This  was  Tattycoram,  the  little  maid  in  the  Meagles 
family,  and,  as  dear  old  Mr.  Meagles  explained,  she 
came  by  her  name  in  the  Foundling  Institution,  in 
a  most  peculiar  way.  On  entering,  she  was  listed 
as  Harriet  Beadle.  The  Meagleses  called  her  Hatty 
at  first,  and  then  Tatty,  "  because,  as  practical  peo- 
ple, we  thought  even  a  playful  name  might  be  a  new 
thing  to  her,  and  might  have  a  softening  and  affec- 
tionate kind  of  effect,  don't  you  see.  .  .  .  The 
name  of  Beadle  being  out  of  the  question,  and  the 
originator  of  the  Institution  for  these  poor  found- 
lings having  been  a  blessed  creature  of  the  name 
of  Coram,  we  gave  that  name  to  Pet's  little  maid. 
At  one  time  she  was  Tatty,  at  one  time  she  was 
Coram,  until  we  got  into  a  way  of  mixing  the  two 
names  together,  and  now  she  is  always  Tattycoram." 

Pet  Meagles  —  Christian  name  Minnie  —  is  still 
another  dainty  bit  of  girlhood,  but  she  is  shadowy 
and  somewhat  unnatural  compared  with  Tattycoram. 
One  cannot  imagine  the  household  keys  jingling 
in  Pefs  small  basket,  while  Tattycoram,  in  spite 
of  her  black  moods,  was  a  capable,  neat-handed  little 
maid,  and  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  when  she 
returned,  penitent,  to  the  Meagles's  home,  she  be- 
came the  most  dutiful  and  conscientious  of  house- 
keepers. When  she  went  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mea- 
gles to  see  Little  Dorrit,  Mr.  Meagles  said  gently: 

"  *  Tattycoram,  come  to  me  a  moment,  my  good 
girl.' 

"  She  went  up  to  the  window. 


264  CHAPXES  DICKENS. 

"  *  You  see  that  young  lady  who  was  here  just 
now  —  that  little  quiet,  fragile  figure  passing  along 
there,  Tatty?  Look!  the  people  stand  out  of  the 
way  to  let  her  go  by.  The  men  —  see  the  poor 
shabby  fellows  pull  ofif  their  hats  to  her,  quite  po- 
litely, and  now  she  glides  in  at  that  doorway.  See 
her,  Tattycoram  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  sir.' 

"  *  I  have  heard  tell,  Tatty,  that  she  was  once 
regularly  called  the  child  of  this  place.  She  was 
born  here,  and  lived  here  many  years.  A  doleful 
place  to  be  born  and  bred  in,  Tattycoram.' 

"  *  Yes,  indeed,  sir! ' 

"  *  If  she  had  constantly  thought  of  herself,  and 
settled  with  herself  that  everybody  visited  this  place 
upon  her,  turned  it  against  her,  and  cast  it  at  her, 
she  would  have  led  an  irritable  and  probably  a  use- 
less existence.  Yet  I  have  heard  tell,  Tattycoram, 
that  her  young  life  has  been  one  of  active  resigna- 
tion, goodness  and  noble  service.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  I  consider  those  eyes  of  hers,  that  were  here 
just  now,  to  have  always  looked  at  to  get  real 
expression?  ' 

"  *  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir.' 

"  *  Duty,  Tattycoram.  Begin  it  early  and  do  it 
well ;  and  there  is  no  antecedent  to  it,  in  any  origin 
or  station,  that  will  tell  against  us  with  the  Almighty, 
or  with  ourselves.'  " 

Which  was  just  Dickens's  way  of  using  Tenny- 
son's poetic  idea: 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       265 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood  — 

and  also  Dickens's  way  of  showing  what  a  deeply 
sincere  and  religious  man  he  was. 

''Little  Dorrit,"  like  all  its  predecessors,  came 
out  in  installments  (the  usual  twenty)  with  the 
usual  forty  illustrations  by  Hablot  K.  Browne 
(Phiz).  It  commenced  in  December,  1855,  and 
was  concluded  in  June,  1857,  parts  nineteen  and 
twenty  forming  a  double  number;  and,  as  usual, 
it  stirred  the  public  as  only  Dickens  could  stir 
them. 

Between  ''  Little  Dorrit  "  and  ''  A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities  "  many  changes  came  into  the  author's  life. 
Household  Words  had  sunk  in  the  newly  conceived 
periodical  which  was  called  All  the  Year  Round, 
and  ''A  Tale  of  Two  Cities"  came  out  in  the 
magazine  in  feverish  weekly  installments,  com- 
mencing with  the  birth  of  the  magazine,  April  30, 
1859,  and  ending  November  26,  of  the  same  year. 
This  is  probably  Dickens's  very  highest  effort  at 
story-telling,  written,  too,  at  a  period  which  marked 
a  serious  turning-point  in  his  life,  a  period  when 
the  mature  and  thoughtful  man  gave  his  whole 
heart  to  the  work. 

We  cannot  tell  if  Lucie  Manette  was  ever  an 
accomplished  little  housekeeper.  We  only  know 
that  the  people  of  those  times  were  more  busily 
engaged  in  keeping  their  heads  than  their  houses, 


266  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  even  the  jingling  of  an  innocent  basket  of  keys 
might  have  been  regarded  with  suspicion. 

In  i860  "  Great  Expectations  "  began  in  All  the 
Year  Round  and  continued  in  weekly  installments. 
It  was  a  queer,  weird  story,  with  certainly  nothing 
to  recommend  it  in  the  housekeeping  line.  But 
it  was  written  at  Gad's  Hill,  which  he  had  recently 
purchased,  and  teems  with  vivid  descriptions  of  the 
beautiful  Kentish  country.  And  Satis  House, 
where  Miss  Havisham  lived,  was  really  a  stately 
edifice  in  Rochester.  That  very  rich,  grim,  and 
peculiar  lady,  who  wore  her  bridal  veil  every  night, 
and  gazed  with  hollow  eyes  at  her  mouldy  bride- 
cake, baked  so  many  years  ago,  was  the  only  house- 
holder of  any  distinction  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
her  housekeeping  was  none  of  the  best. 

It  is  strange  that  Dickens's  fancy  should  have 
taken  this  weird  flight ;  the  only  thing  true  to  nature 
was  the  small  boy,  Pip,  the  echo  of  himself,  whose 
little  vagabond  feet  wandered,  as  his  had  done  long 
years  ago,  about  the  Kentish  hills.  There  was 
more  of  the  open  in  this  story  —  more  of  the  green 
growing  things  —  more  of  the  stars  —  though  little 
enough  of  the  sun.  One  does  not  look  for  a  cheery 
hearth,  a  singing  kettle,  in  the  gloomy  state  Miss 
Havisham  kept;  and  even  Pip's  sister,  Joe's  wife, 
was  too  much  of  a  scold  to  make  home  happy.  The 
only  girls  in  the  story  are  little  Biddy  and  Estella, 
but  there  was  nothing  homelike  or  natural  in  their 
surroundings,     and    certainly    not    once     through 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.      267 

"  Great  Expectations  "  do  we  hear  the  jingle  of  tlie 
housekeeper's  keys. 

But  in  ''  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  his  last  long  novel, 
all  this  was  changed.  The  author  seemed  to  regain 
touches  of  his  youth  in  the  telling  of  this  story  — 
this  wonderful,  mysterious  story,  which  time  only 
mellows.  To  the  girl  just  touching  her  teens,  it  is 
an  absolutely  thrilling  story.  The  coiling  and  coil- 
ing of  the  intricate  plot,  the  slow  unfolding  of  the 
mystery,  are  of  almost  breathless  interest,  and  Dick- 
ens has  not  forgotten  to  carry  us  to  the  homes  of 
these  people,  and  give  us  a  seat  at  their  tables  or 
before  their  fires.  And  above  all  he  has  given  us 
delicious  glimpses  of  girls  at  their  very  sweet- 
est and  best,  and  the  jingle  of  the  little  house- 
keeper's keys  can  be  distinctly  heard  throughout 
the  tale. 

The  daughter  of  a  longshoreman  is  our  first  little 
housekeeper.  Lizzie  Hexam  was  her  name,  and 
her  father,  an  evil-looking  man  named  Jesse  Hexam, 
earned  his  living  by  dragging  the  river  for  dead 
bodies  and  other  wreckage,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  was  known  as  the  bird  of  prey,  and  for 
many  reasons  was  an  important  character.  He 
lived  with  his  two  children,  Charley  and  Lizzie, 
in  a  rotten,  tumble-down  house  close  to  the  water's 
edge. 

"  The  low  building  had  the  look  of  having  once 
been  a  mill.  There  was  a  rotten  wart  of  wood 
upon  its  forehead,  that  seemed  to  indicate  where 


'268  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  sails  had  been,  but  the  whole  was  very  distinctly 
seen  in  the  obscurity  of  the  night." 

The  door  of  this  house  opened  into  a  circular 
room,  and  it  was  here  that  Lizzie  —  a  lonely,  loving, 
and  very  pretty  girl,  spent  many  hours  of  her  life 
trying  to  make  the  old  place  homelike  for  her 
father  and  brother,  trying  to  forget  the  dark,  slug- 
gish river  outside,  and  the  gruesome  things  her 
father  fished  out  of  it,  looking  into  the  heart  of 
the  genial  fire  she  managed  to  keep,  and  seeing 
wonderful  pictures  in  the  glow  of  its  embers.  She 
was  always  a  mother  to  the  boy,  and  in  return  he 
gave  her  the  afifection  of  a  young  cub,  and  her  sweet 
and  gracious  presence  in  this  dark,  dilapidated  house 
made  a  real  home  for  the  two  she  loved  best  in  the 
world. 

Brought  up  in  the  shadow  of  ignorance  and  even 
sin,  without  a  handful  of  knowledge  to  help  her 
in  the  world,  without  knowing  even  how  to  read 
or  write,  Lizzie  Hexam  bloomed  into  a  radiant  crea- 
ture during  the  course  of  the  story. 

In  the  midst  of  the  family  of  R.  Wilfer,  Esquire, 
was  a  rosebud,  and  how  it  flourished  among  so 
many  strange  companions  —  who  can  tell ;  but  Miss 
Bella  Wilfer  was  certainly  a  rose-bud,  and  the  par- 
ent stem  was  certainly  not  a  rose-bush.  This 
charming  young  person,  who  had  no  home  to  speak 
of  with  respect  until  she  married  John  Rokesmifh, 
became,  in  due  course  of  time,  one  of  the  dearest 
and    daintiest    of   housekeepers    in    the    whole    of 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.       269 

"  Dickens-Land."  The  haven  of  bHss  that  she 
made  for  that  lucky  young  man  could  scarcely  be 
conceived,  even  though  Dickens's  pen  painted  the 
cheery  place  in  glowing  colors.  Since  the  days  of 
Mrs.  Dot,  he  has  never  drawn  a  daintier  picture, 
and  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bella  is  an  important  per- 
sonage, indeed,  a  most  important  personage,  only 
adds  to  the  pleasing  sketch. 

To  say  too  much  of  this  charming  Mrs.  Roke- 
sniith  would  be  to  tell  the  story,  and  this  is  one 
story  which  only  Dickens  can  tell ;  the  barest  outline 
would  disfigure  some  part  of  the  plot,  so  we  can 
only  say  ''  hands  oflf "  to  the  clumsy  folk  who  would 
try  to  describe  it.  Let  the  girls  read  it  for  them- 
selves, it  is  well  worth  the  trouble,  only  don't  try 
to  guess  the  mystery  —  you  won't  find  out  —  and 
don't  look  at  the  end  —  it  will  spoil  everything, 
believe  me. 

And  now  for  the  best  and  dearest  and  last  of 
the  little  housekeepers  —  Miss  Jenny  Wren,  the 
doll's  dressmaker.  She,  also,  peeps  from  between 
the  covers  of  "  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  and  she  is 
chiefly  remarkable  for  being  the  ''  mother  "  of  a 
very  troublesome  "child" — her  own  drunken, 
irresponsible  father. 

Her  real  name  was  Fanny  Cleaver,  but,  being 
small  and  misshapen,  the  name  of  Jenny  Wren  was 
far  better  suited  to  the  bright  eyes  and  sharp  little 
young-old  face  that  peeped  out  from  a  glorious  mass 
of  golden  hair  —  her  one  beauty. 


270  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Her  back  was  bad  and  her  legs  were  queer,  she 
explained  to  any  visitor  who  chanced  that  way,  but 
in  all  other  respects  she  was  a  most  capable  and 
breezy  young  person.  ^'  The  person  of  the  house," 
as  she  called  herself,  sat  always  in  a  low  arm-chair 
with  a  sort  of  work-bench  before  it,  and  pursued 
her  daily  occupation  as  doll's  dressmaker. 

"  *  I  hope  it's  a  good  business,'  "  suggested  a  vis- 
itor. 

"  The  person  of  the  house  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  shook  her  head.  *  No,  poorly  paid.  And  I'm 
so  often  pressed  for  time.  I  had  a  doll  married 
last  week  and  was  obliged  to  work  all  night.  .  .  . 
And  they  take  no  care  of  their  clothes,  and  they 
never  keep  to  the  same  fashion  a  month.  I  work 
for  a  doll  with  three  daughters.  Bless  you,  she's 
enough  to  ruin  her  husband ! ' 

''  The  person  of  the  house  gave  a  weird  little 
laugh  here,  and  gave  them  another  look  out  of  the 
corners  of  her  eyes.  She  had  an  elfin  chin  which 
was  capable  of  great  expression,  and  whenever  she 
gave  this  look,  she  hitched  this  chin  up.  As  if  her 
eyes  and  her  chin  worked  together  on  the  same 
wires." 

She  looked  a  mere  child,  yet  the  odd  little  crea- 
ture hated  children,  possibly  because  they  made  fun 
of  her. 

"  '  Don't  talk  of  children,'  "  cried  the  person  of 
the  house.  "  '  I  can't  bear  children,  /  know  their 
tricks  and  their  manners.     .     .     . 


LITTLE  HOUSEKEEPERS  IN  DICKENS-LAND.      271 

"  '  Always  running  about  and  screeching,  always 
playing  and  fighting,  always  skip,  skip,  skipping 
on  the  pavement  and  chalking  it  for  their  games. 
Oh!  /  know  their  tricks  and  their  manners.  .  .  . 
And  that's  not  all.  Ever  so  often  calling  names 
in  through  a  person's  key-hole,  and  imitating  a  per- 
son's back  and  legs.  Oh !  /  know  their  tricks  and 
their  manners !  '  " 

And  no  doubt  she  did,  poor  child. 

"  It  was  difficult  to  guess  the  age  of  this  strange 
creature,  for  her  poor  figure  furnished  no  clue  to 
it  and  her  face  was  at  once  so  young  and  so  old. 
Twelve  or  at  the  most,  thirteen,  might  have  been 
near  the  mark. 

"  *  I  always  did  like  grown-ups,'  she  went  on, 
*  and  always  kept  company  with  them.  So  sen- 
sible. Sit  so  quiet.  Don't  go  prancing  and  caper- 
ing about!  And  I  mean  always  to  keep  among 
none  but  grown-ups  till  I  marry.  I  suppose  I  must 
make  up  my  mind  to  marry  one  of  these  days ! '  " 

Thus  the  person  of  the  house  —  and  she  spoke 
words  of  wisdom  in  her  shrill,  sharp  way,  and  she 
kept  the  house  tidy,  and  earned  money  at  her  quaint 
little  trade,  sitting  there  day  after  day,  among  her 
dolls,  chatting  about  them  —  thinking  about  them  — 
and  shaping  her  own  life  as  her  dexterous  fingers 
fashioned  the  tiny  work  for  her  doll  patrons.  She 
hated  strongly,  she  loved  strongly,  but  duty  was 
stronger  than  all  else,  and  she  cared  for  her  drunken 
father,  in  her  odd,  motherly  way,  until  a  happy  acci- 


2^2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

dent  put  an  end  to  his  worthless  life,  and  then  Miss 
Jenny  Wren  forgot  what  he  had  been,  and  mourned 
for  what  she  would  have  liked  him  to  be  —  like  the 
true  little  woman  that  she  was. 

Dickens  has  never  given  us  a  finer  little  character ; 
there  is  so  much  to  say  about  it,  but  so  much  in 
connection  with  the  story  that  it  does  not  seem 
quite  fair  to  tell  it  here,  so  we  can  only  leave  her 
with  the  keys  in  her  capable  hands,  limping  about 
and  laying  out  a  supper  for  her  ''  bad  boy,"  or  Hs- 
tening  for  the  light  step  of  Lizzie  Hexam,  who 
became  her  dearest  friend. 

And  so,  year  by  year,  in  his  chivalrous,  fatherly 
w^ay,  Dickens  paid  his  tribute  to  girls.  These  small 
w^omen  had  not  yet  learned  to  take  their  places  in 
the  world,  as  they  have  to-day,  but  Dickens  probed 
deeper  below  the  surface  than  most  writers  of  his 
time,  and  the  girls  he  gave  to  his  readers  were  some- 
thing more  than  the  colorless  little  beings  who 
folded  their  hands  and  spoke  when  spoken  to. 

Could  he  have  seen  our  girls  of  to-day  —  with 
their  sensible  ideas,  their  healthy  sports,  their  fear- 
less, straightforward  glances,  what  wonders  he 
could  have  accomplished  in  putting  their  portraits 
upon  his  canvas ! 


PART    IV. 
THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  THE  BOOKS. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

DICKENS,     THE     MANY-SIDED. 


O  far  we  have  tried  to  look  upon  Charles 
Dickens  as  the  great  author  of  his  day, 
and  we  can  grasp  with  certainty  the  fact 
that  his  books  were  his  greatest  monu- 
ment, because  the  man  who  can  give  his  thoughts 
to  the  world  and  let  them  live  after  him  has  no 
need  of  anything  more  substantial  in  the  way  of  a 
monument.  But  when  we  consider  the  many  sides 
of  this  very  remarkable  man,  we  cannot  help  won- 
dering how  —  with  such  a  limited  span  of  life  —  he 
managed  to  accomplish  what  he  did. 

"  Our  Mutual  Friend  "  came  out  in  the  usual 
twenty  monthly  parts,  commencing  May,  1864,  the 
final  number  issued  in  November,  1865;  but  some 
of  it  had  a  close  call.  In  June,  1865,  after  a  short 
holiday  trip  into  France,  Dickens  was  returning  to 
London  by  train  when  a  frightful  accident  occurred. 
The  train  ran  off  the  rails,  and  Dickens  was  in  the 
only  carriage  that  was  not  overturned;  it  was 
caught  in  the  bridge  in  some  marvelous  way,  and 
he  was  of  the  few  who  escaped  without  injury. 
He  was  very  active  in  the  work  of  rescue,  and  went 
about  bravely,  without  a  thought  for  himself,  until 

275 


276  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  left  the  man- 
uscript of  a  number  of  "  Our  Mutual  Friend  "  in 
the  deserted  carriage,  out  of  which  he  had  crawled 
and  assisted  two  ladies  who  had  shared  his  com- 
partment. Without  hesitating  for  a  moment,  he 
clambered  back  and  rescued  some  of  his  best  char- 
acters from  total  destruction.  He  says  in  a  "  post- 
script "  which  he  wrote  in  place  of  a  "  preface  "  to 
this  story :  "  I  remember  with  devout  thankfulness 
that  I  can  never  be  much  nearer  parting  company 
with  my  readers  forever  than  I  was  then,  until  there 
shall  be  written  against  my  life,  the  two  words  with 
which  I  have  this  day  closed  this  book  —  The  End/' 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Dickens's  vigorous  con- 
stitution received  a  shock  from  which  it  never  recov- 
ered; it  is  ecjually  certain  that  his  heart  beat  most 
irregularly  at  times,  and  never  afterwards  was  he 
able  to  travel  on  the  railway  without  a  certain 
nervous  strain. 

We  must  not  forget,  however,  in  considering 
Charles  Dickens  as  an  author,  that  we  have  spoken 
particularly  of  his  work  as  a  novelist,  putting  far 
into  the  background  the  innumerable  short  stories 
and  sketches  which  completely  filled  the  intervals ; 
for  Dickens  was  renowned  as  a  short  story  writer, 
many  of  his  best  being  modestly  tucked  away  in 
the  unsigned  columns  of  Household  Words  and 
All  the  Year  Round. 

The  first  number  of  Household  Words  made  its 
appearance  on  Saturday,  March  30,   1850.     Dick- 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  2'J'J 

ens  was  Editor-in-chief,  and  his  friend,  W.  H. 
Wills,  was  sub-editor  and  manager.  The  new  peri- 
odical was  hailed  with  delight  by  its  world  of  Eng- 
lish readers,  though  looking  at  the  unpretentious 
bound  volumes,  we  cannot  help  comparing  them  with 
the  magazines  of  to-day,  with  their  artistic  illus- 
trations and  attractive  covers,  and  wondering 
wherein  lav  the  charm,  for  we  could  not  even  trace 
the  work  of  a  favorite  author,  so  securely  was  he 
hidden.  It  is  only  within  recent  years  that  Dick- 
ens himself  has  been  traced  through  the  columns, 
and  in  many  cases  the  writings  of  other  people  have 
been  laid  at  his  door,  because,  in  editing  their  con- 
tributions, he  very  often  inserted  paragraphs  of  his 
own,  which,  while  improving  the  author's  style  im- 
mensely, seemed,  nevertheless,  to  have  Dickens's 
stamp,  and  later  were  actually  reprinted  with  his 
name. 

The  magazine  was  a  great  success  —  great  enough 
to  satisfy  even  Dickens's  ambition.  And  it  showed 
his  wonderful  powers  as  an  editor,  for  no  smallest 
detail  was  neglected  by  him.  Even  though  the 
magazine  ran  side  by  side  with  some  of  his  most 
notable  novels,  he  always  had  time  to  attend  faith- 
fully to  his  office  work.  Indeed,  no  one  could  work 
as  hard  or  play  as  hard  as  Charles  Dickens.  Every- 
thing he  did  was  thoroughly  done,  and  when  the 
magazine  changed  its  name  to  All  the  Y ear  Round, 
the  same  active  care  and  interest  marked  its  career. 
The  trouble  was,  he  was  constantly  doing ;  his  brain 
19 


2^^  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ran  a  race  with  his  restless,  active  body,  a  mark  of 
genius  which  must  have  been  very  trying  to  those 
around  him. 

Dickens's  love  for  the  stage  was  well-known,  and 
that  he  was  an  actor  of  more  than  usual  merit  we 
have  seen  in  studying  his  life.  There  has  been 
neither  time  nor  space  to  write  at  length  on  this 
most  important  side  of  his  character;  we  only  know 
that,  whenever  there  was  an  opportunity  to  act, 
Dickens  acted.  Many  have  wondered  if  a  great 
actor  was  not  overshadowed  by  a  great  writer,  and 
the  fact  that  he  often  delivered  prologues  before 
the  curtain,  for  his  friend  Macready,  shows  that 
that  renowned  actor  certainly  considered  him  quite 
above  the  average. 

Indefatigable  he  was,  too,  as  a  stage  manager; 
patient,  good-humored,  untiring,  and  at  all  times  a 
gentleman ;  *'  he  exerted  his  authority  firmly  and 
perpetually,  but  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it 
universally  felt  to  be  for  no  purpose  of  self-asser- 
tion or  self-importance;  on  the  contrary  —  to  be 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  insuring  general  success  to 
their  united  efforts." 

As  an  actor  his  line  was  comedy,  and  the  part 
of  Captain  Bohadil,  the  braggart  in  "  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour,"  was  remarkable  for  its  finished 
work. 

"  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  "  was  given  for  a 
Shakespeare  benefit,  and  in  the  cast  were  three  of 
the    Dickens    brothers,     Frederick,     Charles,     and 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  279 

Augustus  (the  original  "  Boz  "  we  remember),  and 
several  of  Dickens's  most  intimate  friends,  Mark 
Lemon,  John  Forster,  John  Leech,  and  George 
Cruikshank.  This  play  was  followed  by  a  farce, 
"  Love,  Law,  and  Physic,"  in  which  Charles  and 
Frederick  also  took  part. 

There  was  one  special  performance  of  "  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour"  given  at  Knebworth  Park, 
Lord  Lytton's  family  mansion,  in  Avhich  Mrs. 
Charles  Dickens  was  to  have  played,  had  she  not 
been  disabled  by  an  accident,  when  Mrs.  Mark 
Lemon  kindly  took  her  place.  The  Epilogue  on 
this  occasion  makes  humorous  reference  to  all  the 
players.     Here  is  a  part: 

Amongst  the  party  there  are  pretty  pickin's ! 
But  say,  can  newspaper  describe  Charles  Dickens  ? 
Author  and  actor;  manager;  the  soul 
Of  all  who  read  or  hear  him !  on  the  whole 
A  very  Household  Word. 

Reference  is  then  made  to  the  accident  which 
prevented  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Dickens. 

Wellhred.   Now  how  about  the  ladies? 
Knowell.     For  my  part 

I've  got  their  perfection  all  by  heart. 
Wellhred.   Hush,  what  would  Dickens  say  to  such  sweet 

word? 
Knowell.     Why,  that  the  lady  emulates  her  lord. 

A  word  on  her  sad  accident ;  but  quite 

Impromptu,  not  intended  for  to-night. 

Oh,  may  she  soon  recover  from  her  sprain, 


28o  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

To   tread   with   us,   her   friends,   these   boards 
again. 
Wellhred.   That  fall  sank  all  our  spirits ;  but  in  need 

'Tis  said  a  friend  is  found,  a  friend  indeed ! 

Successful  friendship  has  our  cares  allayed. 
Knowell.     Ay,  and  the  case  relieved  by  Lemon-aid. 

When  Dickens  belonged  to  the  Guild  of  Dramatic 
Literature  and  Art,  he  acted  many  times,  and  in  the 
adaptation  of  his  own  story,  "  Mr.  Nightingale's 
Diary,"  he  was  specially  delightful  as  Mr.  Gabble- 
zvig,  the  over-talkative  barrister.  He  was  fond  of 
doing  some  of  his  better  known  characters,  and 
Sam  Weller  and  Mrs.  Gamp  ("not  the  real  Mrs. 
Gamp  but  a  near  relation  " )  were  special  favorites. 

He  took  a  great  interest  in  cultivating  a  dramatic 
spirit  among  his  children,  and  there  were  many- 
Twelfth  Night  celebrations  at  Tavistock  House,  in 
honor  of  the  younger  Charles's  birthday.  Indeed, 
the  children's  theatricals  were  given  there  each  year 
"  until  the  principal  actors  ceased  to  be  children." 

''Tom  Thumb"  was  given  in  1854,  and  '' For- 
tunio  "  in  1855.  Mark  Lemon  and  Dickens  him- 
self took  prominent  parts  in  both  plays,  while  Mark 
Lemon's  own  clever  children  and  Dickens's  tribe 
of  youngsters  added  their  share  to  the  fun.  Dick- 
ens called  his  friend  "  The  Infant  Phenomenon  " 
and  himself  "  The  Modern  Garrick,"  and  the  enter- 
tainments on  both  occasions  went  with  smoothness 
and  spirit.  At  one  of  these  performances  the  ballad 
of  Miss   Villikins,   written  by  Dickens,   was   sung 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  281 

with  such  effect  that  Thackeray,  who  was  present, 
rolled  off  his  seat  in  a  burst  of  laughter. 

The  play  of  "  Fortunio  "  was  advertised  in  the 
most  absurd  manner  on  a  large  lettered  board. 
*'  Re-engagement  of  that  irresistible  comedian,  Mr. 
Ainger!  "  "  Re-appearance  of  Mr.  H.,  who  created 
so  powerful  an  impression  last  year!"  *' Return 
of  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  Jun.  from  his  German  en- 
gagements ! "  "  Engagement  of  Miss  Kate,  w^ho 
declined  the  munificent  offers  of  the  Management 
last  season !  "  "  Mr.  Passe,  Mr.  Mudperiod,  Mr. 
]\Ieasly  Servile,  and  Mr.  Wilkini  Collini !  "  "  First 
appearance,  on  any  stage,  of  ]\Ir.  Plornish-marooti- 
goonter  (who  has  been  kept  out  of  bed  at  a  vast 
expense)."  The  last  performer  mentioned  was  yet 
some  distance  from  the  third  year  of  his  age.  Dick- 
ens was  I\Ir.  Passe. 

In  1855,  "The  Lighthouse"  was  also  produced 
at  Tavistock  House.  Wilkie  Collins  wrote  the 
play,  and  Stanfield,  the  artist,  painted  the  drop- 
scene,  which  was  "  an  exquisite  picture  of  Eddystone 
as  it  stood  in  those  days  .  .  .  and  the  actors 
were  exhibited  throughout  as  shut  up  in  a  little  room 
within  the  lighthouse,  also  of  Air.  Stanfield's  paint- 
ing, which  from  its  nature  could  with  the  best  pos- 
sible effect  be  set  up  in  a  private  drawing-room,  or 
on  a  miniature  stage." 

The  principal  character,  an  old  lighthouse  man, 
was  played  wonderfully  by  Dickens,  in  a  most  pic- 
turesque manner,  arousing  great  enthusiasm. 


282  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

A  year  later,  "  The  Frozen  Deep,"  also  by  Wilkie 
Collins,  was  produced  at  Tavistock  House,  and  in 
preparation  for  this  vtry  ambitious  piece  the  house 
was  literally  turned  upside-down.  The  schoolroom 
was  transformed  into  a  theater;  it  took  quite  three 
months  to  accomplish  this;  to  lay  the  pipes  for 
proper  lighting,  to  paint  appropriate  scenery,  and 
to  train  the  children. 

In  the  meantime,  as  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Mac- 
ready,  on  December  13,  1856:  "You  may  faintly 
imagine,  my  venerable  friend,  the  occupation  of 
these  also  grey  hairs,  between  *  Golden  Marys,' 
*  Little  Dorrits,'  '  Household  Wordses,'  four  stage 
carpenters  entirely  boarding  on  the  premises,  a  car- 
penter's shop  erected  in  the  back  garden,  size  (a  sort 
of  wash)  always  boiling  over  on  all  the  lower  fires, 
Stanfield  perpetually  elevated  on  planks,  and  splash- 
ing himself  from  head  to  foot,  Telbin  requiring 
impossibilities  of  smart  gasmen,  and  a  legion  of 
prowling  nondescripts  forever  shrinking  in  and  out. 
Calm  amidst  the  wreck,  your  aged  friend  glides 
away  on  the  '  Dorrit '  stream,  forgetting  the  uproar 
for  a  stretch  of  hours,  refreshing  himself  with  a 
ten  or  twelve  mile  walk,  pitches  head  foremost  into 
foaming  rehearsals,  placidly  emerges  for  editorial 
purposes,  smokes  over  buckets  of  distemper  with 
Mr.  Stanfield  aforesaid,  again  calmly  floats  upon 
the  *  Dorrit '  waters." 

So  we  see,  in  spite  of  the  noise  and  confusion, 
with  "  a  painter's  shop  in  the  schoolroom ;  a  gas- 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  283 

fitter's  shop  all  over  the  basement;  a  dressmaker's 
shop  at  the  top  of  the  house;  a  tailor's  shop  in  my 
dressing-room  " —  still  ''  Little  Dorrit  "  went  on 
undisturbed,  in  order  that  the  public  might  receive 
the  usual  monthly  number,  and  everything  that  could 
be  done  to  make  the  new  play  a  success  was  done 
without  a  thought  of  trouble  or  inconvenience. 

Special  invitations  were  issued  to  their  friends, 
but  the  house  —  roomy  as  it  was  —  was  not  big 
enough  to  hold  the  ninety-three  people  at  first  in- 
vited, and  so  the  play  had  to  be  repeated  several 
times,  in  order  that  all  might  enjoy  it. 

"  The  Frozen  Deep  "  was  a  true  success,  though 
only  amateurs  took  part.     Wilkie  Collins  says  of  it : 

"  Mr.  Dickens  himself  played  the  principal  part, 
and  played  it  with  a  truth,  vigour,  and  pathos,  never 
to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  were  fortunate  enough 
to  witness  the  performance." 

We  might  go  on  throughout  this  chapter  and 
through  many  more,  giving  interesting  accounts  of 
Dickens's  theatrical  experiences.  It  all  goes  to 
prove  that  his  knowledge  of  drama  and  the  stage 
showed  its  influence  in  his  various  novels,  for  all  — 
without  exception  —  were  written  in  a  dramatic 
style,  and  most  of  them  were  afterwards  arranged 
as  plays,  though  not  always  in  a  way  to  please  the 
author. 

The  first  dramatic  arrangement  was  a  three-act 
version  of  "  Pickwick,"  entitled  "  Sam  Weller,  or 
the  Pickwickians."     The  perpetrator  of  this  direful 


284  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

deed  was  William  Moncrieff,  a  well-known  the- 
atrical tinker,  and  the  play  was  produced  at  the 
Theater  Royal,  on  July  10,  1837.  Poor  Dickens! 
He  could  only  tear  his  hair  and  rave  in  the  news- 
papers, but  there  was  no  legal  way  in  which  to  stop 
the  man,  who  openly  acknowledged  that  he  had  not 
only  appropriated  the  author's  idea,  but  had  tam- 
pered with  it  in  such  a  way  that  Dickens  did  not 
know  his  own  child.  While,  as  to  "  Sam  Weller," 
the  playwright  openly  considered  it  '*  a  character, 
by  the  by,  which  I  should  think  was  only  an  after- 
conception  of  its  creator,  and  formed  no  part  of 
his  original  projection."  In  other  words,  that  Sam 
Weller,  as  we  know  him  and  delight  in  him,  got 
into  the  book  quite  by  accident,  and  that  Dickens 
had  nothing  to  do  with  him. 

The  adaptation  was  thoroughly  ridiculous,  espe- 
cially the  ending,  which  represented  the  accession 
of  Queen  Victoria,  where  the  Populace  in  holiday 
clothes  "  listen  to  some  dialogue  between  Mr.  Pick- 
wick and  Sam;  and  then  join  all  the  characters  in 
a  loyal  chorus  to  the  air  of  Auber's  *  God  Save  the 
King,  Gustavus,'  during  the  singing  of  which,  a 
*"  Procession  of  Heralds,  Beef-eaters,  Guards,  etc., 
are  seen  passing  through  Temple  Bar  to  proclaim 
the  Accession  of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria,  and 
the  piece  concluded  amidst  general  shouts  of  joy 
and  congratulations,  with  tableau!"* 

Think  of  our  dear  old,  unobtrusive,  inoffensive 
"  Pickwick,"  with  such  an  ending ! 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  285 

This  did  not  deter  Moncrieff  from  dramatizing" 
*'  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  before  it  was  completed,  but 
here  Dickens  revenged  himself  by  introducing  the 
character  of  ''  the  literary  gentleman  "  in  the  fare- 
well supper  given  to  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  and 
giving  Moncrieff  some  hard  slaps. 

Mr.  Edward  Stirling,  another  "  adaptor,"  fared 
better  with  "  Nicholas  Nickleby."  This  play  was 
produced  at  the  Adelphi  Theater,  on  November  19, 
1838,  and  lasted  for  one  hundred  and  sixty  nights. 
Dickens  had  been  able  to  sit  through  this  perform- 
ance, and  to  enjoy  some  parts  of  it.  There  was 
another  excellent  adaptation  in  1875,  and  in  1885 
a  "  sketch  "  was  given,  in  which  a  talented  Amer- 
ican actor,  Mr.  John  S.  Clarke,  gave  a  wonderful 
impersonation  of  Neunnan  Noggs.  Mr.  Stirling, 
in  his  interesting  book,  "  Old  Drury  Lane,"  gives  a 
humorous  account  of  one  performance  of  his  ver- 
sion, at  Worthing: 

"  For  my  benefit,"  he  tells  us,  "  '  Nicholas  Nick- 
leby '  was  announced.  Without  the  '  Dotheboys 
Hall '  scholars,  this  performance  could  not,  however, 
take  place.  And  here  was  the  awkward  dilemma. 
Worthing  mothers  of  the  poorer  class  did  not  coun- 
tenance play-acting,  believing  Old  Nick  to  be  in 
some  way  connected  with  it. 

"  There  happened  to  be  in  this  village  an  old  bar- 
ber, w^ho  did  many  things  besides  shaving,  for  a 
living;  among  his  accomplishments  he  was  a  per- 
former on  the  French  Horn,  and  had  ver}'  much 


286  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  same  influence  over  the  children  as  did  the  Pied 
Piper  of  HamHn.  The  manager  of  the  company 
explained  his  need  of  children  for  that  one  scene. 
The  barber  said: 

"  '  I'll  get  you  fifty,  sir,  never  fear.' 

"  And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Lured  from 
the  by-streets  and  alleys  by  his  horn  .  .  .  the 
small  fry  followed  him  to  the  theater  yard;  once 
there  the  gates  were  closed  upon  Mr.  Squeers's  chil- 
dren. Amidst  crying  and  moaning,  they  were 
placed  on  the  stage,  sitting  on  benches  . 
poor  children,  completely  bewildered.  When  the 
treacle  was  administered,  most  of  them  cried.  This 
delighted  the  audience,  thinking  it  so  natural  (so  it 
was).  At  nine  o'clock,  the  act  over,  our  cruel  bar- 
ber threw  open  the  gates,  driving  his  flock  out  with 
a  pleasant  intimation  of  what  they  would  catch 
when  they  arrived  home.  Mothers,  fathers,  sisters, 
in  wild  disorder  had  been  scouring  the  town  for 
their  runaways,  and  the  police  were  completely  puz- 
zled and  at  their  wits'  ends,  at  such  a  wholesale 
kidnapping." 

"  Pickwick  "  was  never  a  success  as  a  play,  but 
the  Jingle  of  Henry  Irving  will  always  be  remem- 
bered. The  only  pity  was  that  Dickens  could  not 
have  seen  this  splendid  piece  of  acting. 

There  was  a  dramatization  of  "  The  Old  Curi- 
osity Shop  "  at  the  Adelphi  in  the  early  days,  when 
Yates  played  Quilp,  and  Mrs.  Keeley  was  the  Little 
Nell.     This  has  always  been  a  favorite  subject,  and 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  287 

there  were  some  excellent  versions  of  it  in  later 
years.  A  great  pitfall  to  many  ambitious  actresses 
was  the  attempt  to  play  both  the  Marchioness  and 
Little  Nell;  "  the  result  has  always  been  disastrous 
to  one  or  the  other  of  the  two  characters,  and  some- 
times to  both.  Poor  Nell,  however,  has  generally 
been  the  greater  sufferer." 

''  Martin  Chuzzlewit  "  has  also  been  **  adapted," 
and  the  funny  thing  about  this  is  —  that  Sairey 
Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig  have  always  been  star  parts 
for  men. 

Mr.  Stirling  dramatized  the  ^'  Carol  "  with  Dick- 
ens's consent.     He  tells  us : 

"  Dickens  attended  several  rehearsals,  furnishing 
valuable  suggestions.  Thinking  to  make  Tiny  Tim 
(a  pretty  child)  more  effective,  I  ordered  a  set  of 
irons  and  bandages  for  his  supposed  weak  leg. 
When  Dickens  saw  this  tried  on  the  child,  he  took 
me  aside : 

"  *  No,  Stirling,  no,  this  won't  do !  remember  how 
painful  it  would  be  to  many  of  the  audience  having 
crippled  children.'  " 

In  1846,  "  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  was  pro- 
duced at  the  Lyceum,  and  an  English  critic  says 
of  it: 

"  That  the  Cricket  might  be  serv^ed  up  quite  warm 
to  the  play-going  public,  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  sup- 
plied the  dramatist,  Mr.  Albert  Smith,  with  proof- 
sheets,  hot  from  the  press.  On  the  evening  of  the 
morning,  therefore,  on  which  the  book  was  pub- 


288  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

lished,  its  dramatic  version  was  produced;  and  as 
the  Adaptor  stuck  very  closely  indeed  to  the  text  of 
the  original,  of  course  it  succeeded." 

Dickens's  characters  were  all  so  natural  that  they 
lived  of  themselves  without  any  help  from  other 
people,  and  lived,  too,  when  dramatists  and  actors 
had  done  their  worst,  and  those  who  tried  to  set 
his  compositions  to  rights  have  done  little  or  no 
harm;  but  the  wise  person  who  stuck  to  the  text, 
remembering  that  Dickens  was  a  master,  was  sure 
of  success;  and  the  result  was  that  in  this  notable 
performance,  which  charms  us  even  to-day,  the 
actors  were  lost  in  the  characters  which  seemed  to 
have  walked  out  of  the  book,  throbbing  with  the 
life  the  author  put  into  them. 

*'  Oliver  Twist  "  has  been  '^  adapted  "  many  times, 
but  the  first  version  was  enough  to  try  the  patience 
of  a  saint;  the  ending  was  enough  to  rouse  the  ire 
of  a  meeker  man  than  Charles  Dickens. 

*'  Mr.  Broivnlow.  And  what  is  now  wanted  to  complete  the 
happiness  of  Oliver  Twist? 

"  Oliver.  First  that  you  will  erect  a  small  white 

tablet  in  the  church  near  which  my  poor 
mother  died,  and  on  it  grave  the  name  of 
Agnes.  There  might  be  no  coffin  in  that 
tomb;  but  if  the  spirits  of  the  dead  ever 
come  back  to  earth  to  visit  spots  hal- 
lowed by  their  love,  I  do  believe  that  the 
shade  of  my  poor  mother  will  often 
hover  about  this  solemn  nook,  though  it 
is  a  church  and  she  was  weak  and  erring. 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  289 

'"  Mr.  Brownlow.  The  next  request  I  will  make  for  you, 
dear  Oliver,  myself,  and  will  make  it  here 
—  to  you  (the  audience).  Our  hero  is 
but  young;  but  if  his  simple  progress  has 
beguiled  you  of  a  smile,  or  his  sorrows  of 
a  tear,  forgive  the  errors  of  the  orphan 
boy,  Oliver  Twist.     (Tableau.)" 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  at  this  representation  of 
''Oliver  Twist"  at  the  Surrey  Theater,  in  1838, 
*'  Dickens  is  said  to  have  laid  himself  down  in  a 
corner  of  the  box,  and  to  have  risen  only  when  the 
curtain  had  fallen." 

The  French  idea  of  "  Nicholas  Nickleby "  was 
laughable:  facts  had  to  give  way  so  often  to  the 
French  idioms  that  the  writer  and  his  characters 
seem  to  disappear  entirely. 

Mr.  Pemberton  says,  in  his  book  on  Dickens  and 
the  Stage,  that  he  once  saw  a  stage  version  of 
"  Little  Dorrit "  "in  which  the  Father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea  inherits  a  title  and  is  called  Sir  William 
Dorrit;  and  an  adaptation  of  '  Dombey  and  Son' 
in  which  poor  Paul  is  stolen  by  Mrs.  Brown,  and 
meets  with  his  death  while  endeavoring  to  escape 
by  way  of  the  roof,  from  that  good  lady's  house!  " 

Mr.  Halliday  wrote  a  play  founded  on  "  Dombey 
and  Son  "  and  called  it  ''  Heart's  Delight,"  Captain 
Cuttle's  name  for  Florence;  and  an  adaptation  of 
"David  Copperfield"   called   "Little  Em'ly." 

We  might  give  countless  instances  of  dramati- 
zation, more  or  less  successful,  of  Dickens's  books. 


290  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

but  there  have  been  only  a  few  of  sufficient  merit 
to  live  side  by  side  with  the  originals.  The 
"  Cricket,"  "  The  Chimes,"  and  "  The  Carol,"  have 
good,  enduring  stuff  in  them.  There  is  a  very  mod- 
ern version  of  "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  "  called  "  The 
Only  Way,"  which  holds  its  own,  and  several 
actresses  of  note  have  created  wonderful  character 
studies  out  of  Nancy  Sikes,  with  the  necessary 
background  of  "  Oliver  Twist." 

There  have  been  Pickwicks  and  Jingles  and  Sam 
Welters,  and  Mrs.  Dots,  and  Little  Nells  and 
Marchionesses,  and  Florence  Dombeys  and  Little 
Em'lys  and  Dame  Diirdens,  and  Jenny  Wrens,  all 
having  their  turns  upon  the  stage,  but  with  one  or 
two  exceptions  they  have  done  nothing  in  the  way 
of  immortalizing  Dickens's  works.  For  the  works 
of  a  master  need  no  prop  —  they  can  stand  alone. 

Some  time  in  the  sixties  "  A  Christmas  Carol  " 
was  played  at  the  Adelphi,  with  the  well-known 
actor,  Toole,  as  Boh  Crafchit,  and  in  the  Cratchit 
Christmas  dinner  scene,  "  a  real  roast  goose  and  a 
real  plum  pudding  were  served  hot  every  night. 
Tiny  Tim  was  played  by  a  somewhat  emaciated 
little  girl,  who  sat  by  the  fireside  and  was  fed  with 
dainty  morsels  by  the  other  little  Cratchits,  who 
clustered  about  the  dinner-table,  and  who,  needless 
to  say,  were  as  willing  to  play  as  good  a  knife  and 
fork  on  the  stage  as  they  are  supposed  to  do  in  the 
book.  Of  all  the  little  Cratchits,  however,  this  Tiny 
Tim  was  the  most  voracious.     Like  his    famous 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  291 

young  relative,  Oliver  Twist,  he  always  wanted 
*  more,'  and  night  after  night  such  large  portions 
of  goose  and  plum  pudding  were  handed  to  this 
exacting  and  hungry  little  invalid  that  even  the  good- 
natured  Toole  grew  annoyed,  feeling  that  the  poetry 
of  the  scene  was  being  missed,  and  at  last  became 
absolutely  angry  with  the  child  for  its  supposed 
gluttony.  Being  at  length  taken  to  task  on  the 
subject,  poor  Tim  made  a  confession.  The  child 
had  a  sister  (a  not  too  well-fed  sister)  employed  in 
the  theater.  The  fire  by  which  it  sat  was  a  '  stage 
fire,'  through  which  anything  could  be  easily  con- 
veyed to  one  waiting  on  the  other  side,  and  poor 
little  Tim's  goose  and  pudding  were  more  than 
shared  each  night.  When  Toole  told  this  story  to 
Dickens,  he  was  greatly  touched,  and  said :  '  I  hope 
you  gave  the  child  the  whole  goose.'  " 

Mr.  Toole  was  a  famous  actor  in  the  five  im- 
portant Christmas  Stories,  a  tribute  he  paid  to  the 
author,  who  was  the  first  to  give  him  real  encour- 
agement in  his  work. 

But  the  stage  and  its  attractions  were  only  side- 
lights in  Dickens's  eventful  life.  His  pen  was  never 
idle,  and  the  real  student  might  spend  a  year  or 
more  unearthing  and  reading  his  many  literary 
efforts,  which  have  simply  not  been  handed  down 
to  fame  because  they  are  so  numerous. 

"  No  Thoroughfare "  is  a  particularly  notable 
piece  of  work,  because  it  was  not  only  written  jointly 
by  Dickens  and  Wilkie  Collins,  but  written  in  such 


2g2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

a  way  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  separate 
the  work  of  the  two  writers. 

A  somewhat  earlier  story  and  a  very  well-known 
one  is  ''  The  Wreck  of  the  Golden  Mary  "  printed 
in  the  Christmas  number  of  Household  Words, 
1856.  This  story  contains  a  beautiful  "  Child's 
Hymn  "of  five  stanzas,  written  by  Dickens,  who 
did  not  often  use  his  pen  for  serious  verse.  In  the 
daily  papers,  and  for  special  dinners  and  toasts,  and 
once  in  a  while  in  a  prologue  to  some  special  play, 
Dickens  indulged  in  rhyme  —  somewhat  stilted  and 
formal  when  serious  —  and  when  not  in  a  serious 
vein  his  verses  could  be  clever. 

In  1868,  a  charming  story  for  young  people, 
called  "  A  Holiday  Romance "  appeared  first  in 
America,  in  four  parts,  in  Our  Young  Folks,  a  Bos- 
ton publication  edited  by  Ticknor  and  Fields,  and 
afterwards  was  reprinted  in  All  the  Year  Round. 
Dickens  did  not  often  write  for  children,  but  it 
may  be  interesting  to  know  that  Our  Young  Folks 
after  a  time  left  its  Boston  home  and  came  to  New 
York,  where  it  changed  its  name  to  the  St.  Nicholas 
Magazine,  by  which  it  is  known  to-day. 

A  very  charming  idea  is  this  "  Holiday  Romance," 
supposed  to  have  been  written  by  four  children: 
William  Tinkling,  Esquire,  aged  eight;  Miss  Alice 
Rainhird,  aged  seven;  Lieutenant-Colonel  Robin 
Red  forth,  aged  nine ;  and  Miss  Nettie  Ashford,  aged 
half -past-six,  and  the  author  has  very  cleverly 
brought  out  the  character  of  each  child. 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  293 

William  Tinkling  shoulders  the  pen  in  Part  First. 
He  says: 

"  The  beginning  part  is  not  made  out  of  anybody's 
head  you  know.  It's  real.  You  must  believe  this 
beginning  part  more  than  what  comes  after  else 
you  won't  understand  how  what  comes  after  came 
to  be  written.  You  must  believe  it  all  but  you  must 
believe  this  most  —  please.  I  am  the  editor  of  k. 
Bob  Red  forth  (he's  my  cousin,  and  shaking  the 
table  on  purpose)  wanted  to  be  the  editor  of  it;  but 
I  said  he  shouldn't  because  he  couldn't.  He  has  no 
idea  of  being  an  editor. 

"  Nettie  Ashford  is  my  bride.  We  were  married 
in  the  right-hand  closet  in  the  corner  of  the  dancing 
school  where  first  we  met,  with  a  ring  (a  green 
one)  from  Wilkingwater's  toy  shop.  /  owed  for 
it  out  of  my  pocket  money.  When  the  rapturous 
ceremony  was  over  we  all  four  went  up  the  lane 
and  let  off  a  cannon  (brought  loaded  in  Bob  Red- 
forth's  waistcoat  pocket)  to  announce  our  nuptials. 
It  flew  right  up  when  it  went  off,  and  turned  over. 
Next  day  Lieutenant-Colonel  Robin  Red  forth  was 
united  with  similar  ceremonies,  to  Alice  Rainbird. 
This  time  the  cannon  burst  with  a  most  terrific  ex- 
plosion and  made  a  puppy  bark." 

Miss  Rainbird  next  takes  up  the  romance.  She 
says: 

"  There  was  once  a  king  and  he  had  a  queen ; 
and  he  was  the  manliest  of  his  sex,  and  she  was  the 
loveliest  of  hers.     The  king  was  in  his  private  pro- 
20 


294  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

fession,  under  government.  The  queen's  father  had 
been  a  medical  man  out  of  town. 

^'  They  had  nineteen  children,  and  were  always 
having  more.  Seventeen  of  these  children  took 
care  of  the  baby;  and  Alicia,  the  oldest,  took  care 
of  them  all.  Their  ages  varied  from  seven  years 
to  seven  months. 

"  Let  us  now  resume  our  story." 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Robin  Redforth  wrote  in  a 
nautical  vein  with  a  tinge  of  piracy.  He  begins 
thus: 

'^  The  subject  of  our  present  narrative  w^ould 
appear  to  have  devoted  himself  to  the  pirate  pro- 
fession at  a  comparatively  early  age.  We  find  him 
in  command  of  a  splendid  schooner  of  one  hundred 
guns  loaded  to  the  muzzle,  ere  yet  he  had  had  a 
party  in  honor  of  his  tenth  birthday." 

His  name  was  Boldheart  —  and  he  was  given  to 
singing  nautical  melodies  like  the   following: 

Oh,  landsmen  are  folly ! 
Oh,  pirates  are  jolly! 
Oh,  diddleum  Dolly ! 
Di! 

Chorus  —  Heave  yo  ! 

Miss  Nettie  Ashford  is  responsible  for  Part 
Four,  beginning: 

''  There  is  a  country  which  I  will  show  you  w^hen 
I  get  into  maps,  where  the  children  have  everything 
their  own  way.     It  is  a  most  delightful  country  to 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  295 

live  in.  The  grown-up  people  are  obliged  to  obey 
the  children,  and  are  never  allowed  to  sit  up  to  sup- 
per except  on  their  birthdays.  The  children  order 
them  to  make  jam,  and  jelly,  and  marmalade,  and 
tarts,  and  pies,  and  puddings,  and  all  manner  of 
pastry.  If  they  say  they  won't,  they  are  put  into 
the  corner  till  they  do.  They  are  sometimes 
allowed  to  have  some;  but  when  they  have  some, 
they  generally  have  powders  given  to  them  after- 
wards." 

We  can  certainly  tell  from  the  foregoing  para- 
graphs exactly  what  sort  of  youngsters  composed 
this  quartette,  and  we  can  understand  the  fun  Dick- 
ens had  in  writing  this  story. 

"  George  Silverman's  Explanation  "  was  also  writ- 
ten for  an  American  magazine,  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  and  for  these  stories  —  neither  of  them 
of  an  unusual  length  —  Dickens  received  one  thou- 
sand pounds  apiece! 

We  might  mention  a  long  string  of  stories  — 
'*The  Seven  Poor  Travelers,"  ''The  Haunted 
House,"  "  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground,"  "  Somebody's 
Luggage,"  ''  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings,"  ''  Mrs. 
Lirriper's  Legacy,"  "  Dr.  Marigold's  Prescrip- 
tions," "  Mugby  Junction,"  all  of  which  appeared  in 
All  the  Year  Round,  and  we  would  find  among  these 
many  clever  and  amusing  things,  for  everything 
Dickens  touched  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of 
wholesome  humor. 

There  is  yet  another  side  to  this  remarkable  man. 


296  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  that  is  his  gift  of  oratory.  It  made  of  him  a 
most  convincing  lecturer,  and  it  opened  still  another 
channel  for  his  talents.  He  became  a  public  in- 
terpreter and  reader  of  his  own  works,  and  under 
the  management  of  Mr.  George  Dolby  made  most 
successful  tours  through  Great  Britain  and  America. 

Never  before  had  such  a  scheme  suggested  it- 
self, and  it  proved  to  be  as  popular  as  it  was  origi- 
nal. Dickens's  fine  reading  would  have  pleased  an 
audience,  regardless  of  the  text;  but  when  he  read 
one  of  his  own  books  and  threw  into  the  telling 
scenes  all  the  emotion  which  had  prompted  the 
original  writing,  nothing  could  have  been  more  in- 
spiring. There  were  selections  from  "  Dombey," 
"Nickleby,"  '^Pickwick,''  "Oliver  Twist,"  "The 
Carol,"  "The  Cricket,"  "The  Chimes,"  "Dr. 
Marigold's  Prescriptions,"  and  many  others. 

The  period  of  these  readings  (1867-1868)  cov- 
ered a  period  of  declining  health,  and  Mr.  Dolby, 
who  was  his  business  manager  as  well-  as  his  per- 
sonal friend,  had  a  great  responsibility  in  arrang- 
ing his  various  appearances  before  the  public.  He 
was  curiously  afflicted,  during  his  American  tour, 
with  loss  of  voice  just  before  or  just  after  the  read- 
ing, but  in  some  miraculous  way  it  invariably  re- 
turned when  he  had  reached  his  desk,  and  faced 
his  task  and  his  audience. 

In  America  the  rush  to  hear  him  was  unprec- 
edented; people  fought  for  tickets  at  any  price, 
and  the  waiting  line  in  front  of  the  box-office  was 


DICKENS,  THE  MANY-SIDED.  297 

half  a  mile  long.  Mr.  Dolby's  book  is  full  of 
humorous  recollections  of  this  tour,  of  which  the 
following  anecdote  is  a  fair  sample : 

During  the  progress  of  a  reading  in  Boston, 
Mr.  Dolby  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  one 
of  his  staff  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
hall,  when  his  attention  was  drawn  to  a  gentleman 
coming  down  the  stairs  in  a  most  excited  state. 
"  Imagining  him  to  be  ill  and  wanting  assistance, 
I  said,  'What's  the  matter  with  yoii? '  From  the 
accent  of  his  reply  I  concluded  that  he  was  a 
'  reg'lar  down  Easter.'  '  Say,  who's  that  man  on 
the  platform  reading?  ' 

"  '  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,'  I  replied. 

"  '  But  it  ain't  the  real  Charles  Dickens,  the  man 
as  wrote  all  them  books  I've  been  reading  all  these 
years.' 

"  '  The  same.' 

"  After  a  moment's  pause  as  if  for  thought,  he 
replied : 

"  '  Wall,  all  I've  got  to  say  about  it,  then,  is,  that 
he  knows  no  more  about  Sam  Weller'n  a  cow  does 
of  pleatin'  a  shirt.  At  all  events,  that  ain't  my 
idea  of  Sam  Weller,  anyhow.' 

"  After  the  delivery  of  this  speech,  he  clapped 
his  hat  on  his  head  and  left  the  building  in  a  state 
of  high  dudgeon." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  Dickens  could  not  long 
endure  the  strain  to  which  he  was  constantly  sub- 
jecting himself.     He  said  of  himself:  "I  have  al- 


298  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ways  felt  that  I  must,  please  God,  die  in  harness." 
And  it  is  good  to  think  that  he  had  his  wish  — 
that  he  did  not  outlive  his  usefulness  and  his  ac- 
tivity. 

He  only  lived  two  years  after  his  return  from 
America,  but  they  were  two  full  years,  in  spite 
of  much  pain  and  many  break-downs;  for  his 
dream  had  come  true  —  the  *'  little  boy  of  Long 
Ago  "  had  reached  the  summit  of  Gad's  Hill,  and 
all  about  him  lay  *'  the  purple  wonder,  the  crimson 
glory  "of  the  sunset. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DICKENS    AND    HIS     FRIENDS. 


ROM  his  very  earliest  boyhood,  the 
sunny  nature  and  genial  spirit  drew 
around  Dickens  many  friends.  He 
was  quick  to  know  and  to  feel  sympathy, 
and  any  kindness  extended  to  him  was  certainly 
never  forgotten.  From  the  little  playmates  of 
those  earlier  days,  to  the  associates  of  later  years, 
one  and  all  found  him  most  attractive  as  a  com- 
panion. His  keen  wit,  even  in  childhood,  made 
him  a  leader,  and  among  the  men  and  women  of 
his  time,  it  took  its  place  and  added  to  the  luster 
of  that  brilliant  circle. 

He  came  into  the  world  alongside  of  Tennyson 
and  Thackeray,  the  youngest  of  the  trio.  Walter 
Scott  died  when  Dickens  was  twenty,  but  not  be- 
fore his  influence  had  been  felt  throughout  the  land. 
In  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  world 
of  literature  was  illumined  by  flaming  torches : 
Macaulay,  Carlyle,  Tennyson,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
George  Eliot,  Bulwer-Lytton,  the  Brontes,  The 
Brownings,  Charles  Reade,  Leigh  Hunt,  Thomas 
Hood,  and  many  lesser  lights;  so  wherever  genius 
burned  in  those  early  Victorian  days  there  was  sure 

299 


300  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

to  be  another  fire  not  far  off.  It  was  the  day  of 
eminent  statesmen  and  eminent  painters,  great 
singers  and  great  actors,  of  spirit  and  stir  and  ac- 
tion everywhere,  and  the  birth  of  immortal  verse 
and  prose.  It  was  a  great  time  in  which  to  be 
born,   and  Dickens  showed  his  appreciation. 

With  most  of  these  writers  in  after  days  he 
came  into  personal  contact,  especially  with  Thack- 
eray, whose  writing  lay  along  the  same  lines ;  in- 
deed, there  was  a  spirit  of  rivalry  between  them 
which  was  not  always  very  friendly,  but  both  men 
were  too  big,  and  in  heart  too  kindly,  to  allow  a 
serious  breach.  It  is  true  that  in  many  proved 
instances,  Thackeray  (being  the  later  writer)  with- 
out doubt  founded  some  of  his  characters  on  those 
well-known  Dickens's  books,  and  at  one  time 
there  was  serious  danger  of  a  permanent  split. 
Thackeray  once  said  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his 
daughters :  ''  There  is  not  room  for  both  of  us  in 
the  same  tree,"  but  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
Dickens's  beautiful  eulogy  of  his  lost  friend  en- 
tirely wiped  away  the  slightest  bitterness. 

As  a  young  man,  Dickens  cared  more  for  the 
society  of  ladies,  but  after  his  very  early  marriage 
he  drew  around  him  a  brilliant  circle  of  young  men, 
first  among  them  being  John  Forster.  It  is  a  well- 
known  saying  that  without  knowing  Forster,  one 
could  hardly  know  Dickens,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  the 
great  Novelist  would  have  attained  half  his  great- 
ness or  his  power  had  not  John  Forster's  calmer 


DICKEXS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  301 

judgment  been  ever  at  his  elbow,  advising,  warn- 
ing, suggesting,  always  unselfishly  where  his  friend 
was  concerned,  and  truly  proud  of  every  step  which 
Dickens  took  towards  fame. 

Nothing  was  ever  kept  from  Forster,  and  the 
number  of  horseback  rides,  and  holiday  jaunts,  and 
family  excursions,  in  which  he  had  a  share,  showed 
how  near  he  was  to  the  very  heart  of  Dickens's 
household. 

Dickens's  temper,  while  genial,  was  hot  and  quick, 
but  all  throus^h  their  vears  of  intercourse  there  is 
no  record  of  anything  like  a  quarrel  between  these 
friends.  They  disagreed  on  many  points,  as  the 
best  of  friends  will,  but  their  little  differences  were 
mere  matters  of  opinion  and  food  for  argument,  in 
which  Forster  especially  delighted. 

Macready,  the  celebrated  actor,  was  another 
long-tried  friend.  Dickens's  love  for  the  stage 
brought  these  two  very  close  together.  Indeed, 
both  families  were  very  intimate,  and  when  Dickens 
and  his  wife  paid  their  first  visit  to  iVmerica  the 
3Iacreadys  took  entire  charge  of  their  children. 

Daniel  IMaclise  and  Clarkson  Stanfield  also  be- 
longed to  the  magic  circle  of  close  friends.  Both 
were  celebrated  painters,  the  former  a  painter  of 
portraits  —  the  latter  of  large  canvasses.  Mac- 
lise's  many  portraits  and  sketches  of  Dickens  him- 
self, are  celebrated,  the  frontispiece  of  this  volume 
being  a  copy  of  the  famous  one  which  hangs  in  the 
British  National  Gallerv. 


302  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

These  select  spirits  were  always  going  off  on 
holiday  jaunts,  like  a  set  of  overgrown  boys,  and 
such  fun  they  had  —  and  such  larks !  One  par- 
ticular journey  into  Cornwall,  soon  after  his  Ameri- 
can tour,  is  described  by  Dickens  in  a  letter  to  his 
American  friend,  Professor  Felton: 

"  We  all  went  down  into  Devonshire  by  the  rail- 
road, and  there  we  hired  an  open  carriage  from  an 
inn-keeper,  patriotic  in  all  Pickwick  matters,  and 
went  on  with  post-horses.  Sometimes  we  travelled 
all  night,  sometimes  all  day,  sometimes  both.  I 
kept  the  joint-stock  purse,  ordered  all  the  dinners, 
paid  all  the  turnpikes,  conducted  facetious  conver- 
sations with  the  post-boys,  and  regulated  the  pace  at 
which  we  travelled.  Stanfield  (an  old  sailor)  con- 
sulted an  enormous  map  on  all  disputed  points  of 
way- faring,  and  referred,  moreover,  to  a  pocket 
compass  and  other  scientific  instruments.  The 
luggage  was  in  Forster's  department,  and  Maclise 
—  having  nothing  particular  to  do  —  sang  songs." 

The  four  were  young  and  healthy,  and  enjoying 
themselves  immensely  like  inconsequent  schoolboys. 

"If  you  could  have  witnessed,"  continues  Dick- 
ens, "  the  deep  devotion  of  the  post-boys,  the 
wild  attachment  of  the  hostlers,  the  maniac  glee  of 
the  waiters!  If  you  could  have  followed  us  into 
the  earthy  old  churches  we  visited,  and  into  the 
strange  caverns  on  the  gloomy  seashore,  and  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  mines,  and  up  to  the  tops  of 
the   giddy   heights,    where   the   unspeakably    green 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  303 

water  was  roaring  —  I  don't  know  how  many 
hundred  feet  below!  ...  I  never  laughed  as 
I  did  on  this  journey;  I  was  choking  and  gasping 
and  bursting  the  buckle  off  the  back  of  my  stock  all 
the  way.  And  Stanfield  got  into  such  apoplectic 
entanglements  that  we  were  often  obliged  to  beat 
him  on  the  back  with  portmanteaus  before  we  could 
recover  him.  Seriously  I  do  believe  there  never 
was  such  a  trip,  and  they  made  sketches,  these  two 
men  (Maclise  and  Stanfield)  in  the  most  romantic 
of  our  halting-places,  that  you  would  have  sworn 
we  had  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  with  us,  as  well  as  the 
Spirit  of  Fun." 

These  holidays  always  occurred  either  just  before 
or  just  after  writing  a  book  when  he  wished  for  a 
mental  rest. 

Another  lifelong  friend  was  Thomas  Mitton, 
one  of  his  fellow  clerks  in  the  early  days  of  the 
law,  and  with  whom  he  kept  up  a  vigorous  cor- 
respondence. 

Dickens's  books  were  so  much  a  part  of  himself 
that  his  numerous  illustrators  had  necessarily  to 
come  very  close  to  the  author  in  order  to  get  the 
full  meaning  of  each  story.  For  this  reason  Hablot 
K.  Browne,  George  Cruikshank,  George  Catter- 
mole,  and  John  Leech  were  on  the  closest  and 
friendliest  terms  with  the  Novelist.  Hablot  K. 
Browne,  who  probably  knew  him  most  intimately  of 
all,  began  to  illustrate  the  fourth  number  of  Pick- 
wick in  1836,  and  was  constantly  associated  with 


304  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Dickens  until  1859,  the  last  book  he  illustrated  be- 
ing "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities." 

At  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  he  was  only 
twenty-one,  and  Dickens  but  t\venty-four;  the  two 
young  men  had  much  in  common  and  soon  became 
great  friends.  Browne  was  unusually  quick  in 
catching  an  idea,  and  it  was  lucky  that  he  was,  for 
Dickens  shot  his  ideas  like  sky-rockets,  and  made 
the  most  sudden  demands.  He  would  rush  in  upon 
him,  read  a  scene,  and  demand  an  illustration,  then 
he  would  rush  away  without  even  leaving  the 
manuscript  for  him  to  consult.  It  is  well  known 
that  he  had  to  make  twenty-nine  sketches  before 
producing  a  satisfactory  portrait  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

In  the  early  days  he  was  a  most  delightful  com- 
panion, and  on  one  occasion,  in  the  midst  of  "  Pick- 
wick," Dickens  picked  himself  up  "  bag  and  bag- 
gage," took  his  wife  and  invited  Browne  to  join 
them  for  a  short  holiday  in  Belgium,  and,  before 
the  writing  of  "  Nickleby,"  he  it  was  who  joined 
Dickens  in  the  pilgrimage  among  the  Yorkshire 
schools.  But  he  did  not  catch  the  contagion  of 
Dickens's  sociability.  After  his  marriage  he  with- 
drew into  the  country,  and  even  Dickens  had  dif- 
ficulty in  persuading  him  to  spend  the  evening  and 
meet  a  few  friends.  But  our  grandmothers  can 
remember,  when  the  green-backed  **  numbers  "of 
the  novels  used  to  come  out,  how  eagerly  the  name 
of  "  Phiz "  was  looked  for,  side  by  side  w^ith 
"  Boz." 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  305 

George  Cruikshank  was  an  elderly  man  when 
Dickens  was  beginning  his  career,  and  illustrated 
for  him  some  of  the  *'  Sketches  by  Boz "  and 
"  Oliver  Twist."  They  did  the  same  sort  of  char- 
acter work,  Dickens  with  his  pen  —  Cruikshank 
with  his  pencil,  and  one  would  not  brook  inter- 
ference or  suggestion  from  the  other,  so  the  busi- 
ness partnership  did  not  last  very  long,  though  the 
friendship  continued  for  many  years.  Dickens 
was  frank  in  his  admiration  of  Cruikshank's  won- 
derful work. 

George  Cattermole  was  a  friend  of  long  years' 
standing,  and  more  than  usually  intimate  from  the 
fact  that  his  wife  was  a  distant  cousin  of  the 
Dickens  family.  He  was  twelve  years  older  than 
Dickens,  and  supplied  the  illustrations  for  Master 
Humphrey's  Clock,  which,  as  we  know,  included 
"  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  "  and  "  Barnaby  Rudge." 
He  was  really  more  than  a  mere  illustrator ;  he  was 
a  painter  of  no  small  power.  Dickens  was  his  great 
admirer  as  well  as  his  friend,  and  trusted  him  im- 
plicitly in  the  illustration  of  these  two  picturesque 
stories.  His  letters  to  him  were  always  most  af- 
fectionate, brimming  over  with  kindly,  friendly  in- 
terest. 

Daniel  Maclise  had  the  seal  of  warm  friendship 
besides  the  rare  genius  which  endeared  him  to 
Dickens.  Forster  was  the  link  between  these  two 
remarkable  men,  for  he  brought  them  together 
w^hen  to  all   three   "  the  world   was  young."     He 


306  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

was  a  year  older  than  Dickens,  and  he  died  just 
a  few  weeks  before  the  friend,  who  Hved  long 
enough  to  pay  him  tribute  at  an  Academy  dinner. 
Here  are  his  touching  words,  spoken  from  a  heart 
whose  restless,  throbbing  beats  were  numbered! 

"  The  gentlest  and  most  modest  of  men,  the 
freest  as  to  his  generous  appreciation  of  young  as- 
pirants, and  the  frankest  and  most  large-hearted 
as  to  his  peers,  incapable  of  a  sordid  or  ignoble 
thought,  gallantly  sustaining  the  true  dignity  of 
his  vocation  without  a  grain  of  self-assertion, 
wholesomely  natural  at  the  last  as  at  the  first,  '  in 
wit  a  man  —  simplicity  a  child,'  no  artist  of  what- 
soever denomination,  I  make  bold  to  say,  ever  went 
to  his  rest  having  a  golden  memory  more  free  from 
dross,  or  having  devoted  himself  with  a  truer  chiv- 
alry to  the  art  goddess  he  served." 

Could  one  man  give  a  more  glowing  tribute  to 
another  than  this ! 

Maclise  designed  some  of  the  frontispieces  to  the 
Christmas  books,  but  this  was  only  done  out  of 
pure  friendship  for  the  author.  Maclise's  fame 
lay  in  his  historical  paintings. 

John  Leech,  another  of  Dickens's  illustrators 
was  also  a  warm  personal  friend;  he  and  Doyle 
were  both  artists  for  '^  Punch,"  and  both  did  work 
in  the  Christmas  books,  but  Leech  and  Dickens  were 
much  more  intimate  personally  than  through  busi- 
ness. 

The  Stones,  Frank  and  Marcus,  both  illustrated 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  307 

for  Dickens,  and  won  his  friendship.  Frank  illus- 
trated ''  The  Haunted  Man,"  and  Marcus  "  Our 
Mutual  Friend." 

What  brought  these  men  even  more  closely  to- 
gether was  the  *'  merry  company  of  actors "  of 
which  Dickens  was  the  star.  Mark  Lemon,  the 
editor  of  "  Punch,"  also  joined  the  forces,  and  the 
result,  as  we  all  know,  was  certainly  a  congenial 
band  of  friends. 

Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  Miss  Mary  Boyle,  Lady 
Blessington,  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Miss  Coutts,  and  his 
sister-in-law,  Georgina  Hogarth,  all  enjoyed  the  sun- 
shine of  his  rare  friendship,  and  there  were  num- 
bers who  partook  of  his  charming  hospitality  who 
could  be  added  to  the  list. 

He  made  many  warm  friends  in  America,  among 
them  Professor  Felton,  Longfellow,  Washington 
Irving,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fields;  not  mere  acquaint- 
ances but  good  firm  friends,  who  would  have 
served  him  in  any  emergency,  and  of  whom  he  al- 
ways spoke  affectionately. 

Carlyle,  he  loved  and  admired  greatly;  Mrs. 
Carlyle  not  less  so ;  and  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 
was  a  warm  personal  friend.  Douglas  Jerrold  was 
another  friend  among  the  happy  band  of  actors, 
and  Talfourd  (afterwards  Judge)  was  one  of  the 
early-day  friends.  Could  any  man  fail  to  be  some- 
thing or  somebody  —  surrounded  by  such  friends! 

We  must  remember,  in  viewing  Charles  Dickens 
with  his  work  behind  him,  that  he  sprang  origi- 


3o8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

nally  from  the  great  Middle  Class  of  English  folk, 
and  that  his  name  finally  was  associated  only  with 
the  best  and  highest  in  the  land,  entirely  through 
his  own  efforts  and  by  the  might  of  his  own  brilliant 
mind.  He  was  as  proud  as  a  child  of  the  position 
he  had  won,  but  he  was  never  overbearing.  He 
liked  to  talk  about  it,  to  tell  how  he  had  fought 
his  way  to  the  front,  and  against  what  great  odds 
he  had  had  to  fight,  and  his  keen  lined  face  would 
light  up  with  these  memories  —  as  he  talked. 

He  liked  to  take  his  chosen  friends  back  to  his 
boyish  haunts,  to  Chatham  —  to  Rochester,  he 
liked  to  invite  them  to  Gad's  Hill,  and  make  them 
look  down  upon  the  sweep  of  Kentish  country,  and 
point  out  the  spots  where  the  "  small  queer  boy  " 
used  to  linger  in  the  by-gone  days.  He  only  took 
his  chosen  intimates  to  these  spots,  hallowed  by  as- 
sociation, but  many  a  day  was  spent  rambling  in 
the  dear  haunts,  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  his 
friends,  dining  or  supping  at  the  old  Inns,  made 
famous  in  his  books. 

He  frequently  popped  his  friends  into  his  stories, 
and  the  likenesses,  though  often  grotesque,  were  al- 
ways clever.  H  the  friend  was  sensible,  he  took 
these  little  jokes  serenely,  but  Leigh  Hunt  was  thin- 
skinned  enough  to  be  irritated  at  the  excellent  like- 
ness of  him  in  Harold  Skimp ole  in  "  Bleak  House." 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  another  of  Dickens's 
special  friends,  was  boldly  drawn  as  Boythorne  in 
the  same  book.     And  much  as  he  admired  Forster, 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  309 

it  is  certain  that  in  describing  Mr.  Podsnap's  argu- 
mentative traits  and  loud  insistent  air  in  *'  Our 
Mutual  Friend  "  he  was  thinking  of  his  friend,  who, 
like  Mr.  Podsnap,  had  a  sweeping  way  of  putting 
a  disagreeable  subject  behind  him. 

''  *  Besides '  said  Mr.  Podsnap,  .  .  .  '  the 
subject  is  disagreeable  to  me,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
say  it  is  an  odious  one.'  He  finished  with  that 
flourish  of  his  arm  which  added  more  expressively 
than  any  words,  *  and  I  remove  it  from  the  face 
of  the  earth '  "  and  Forster,  far  from  being  angry 
at  this  caricature,  rather  enjoyed  it. 

Another  friend  whom  Dickens  admired  greatly 
was  Thomas  Hood,  and  it  may  not  be  generally 
known  that  the  famous  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  "  had 
its  origin  in  a  suggestion  of  Dickens,  who  in  a 
letter  had  called  attention  to  the  case  of  an  un- 
fortunate sempstress  who  made  shirts  at  three- 
pence apiece,  and,  being  robbed  of  these  hard  earn- 
ings, attempted  to  drown  herself.  In  the  next 
number  of  Hood's  magazine  appeared  "  The  Song 
of  the  Shirt." 

There  were  certain  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween his  friend,  Judge  Talfourd  and  Tommy 
Traddles  of  "  Copperfield  "  fame,  but  the  novelist's 
drawing  of  the  famous  Traddles  was  so  tender 
and  touching  that  no  living  original  could  have 
found  fault  with  it. 

Wilkie  Collins  was  very  intimate,  not  only  with 
Dickens  himself,  but  with  his  entire  household. 
21 


310  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  two  were  closely  associated  in  their  literary- 
work,  and  their  methods  of  writing  were  much 
alike.  The  two  men  were  very  congenial,  and 
Collins's  brother  married  Kate  Dickens,  with  great 
pomp  and  ceremony,  at  Gad's  Hill. 

A  friend  to  Dickens  meant  the  whole  history  of 
friendship;  once  the  pact  was  sealed,  the  bond  was 
fast,  and  there  was  no  trouble  too  great  —  nor 
sacrifice,  either,  for  that  matter  —  in  the  cause  of 
friendship.  His  house  was  opened  to  his  friends, 
and  nothing  in  the  way  of  hospitality  was  forgotten 
or  neglected  in  their  service,  and  if  these  friends 
happened  to  be  very  young,  why,  all  the  more  rea- 
son for  kindness  and  hospitality. 

Of  Dickens's  friends  among  children  there  is 
absolutely  no  count.  A  child  was  to  him  a  thing 
apart,  and  the  small  boys  or  girls  had  only  to  glance 
at  the  kind,  keen  face,  with  its  humorous  lines, 
and  the  bright,  searching  eyes  which  seemed  to 
probe  to  their  timid  hearts,  to  feel  sure  that  they 
had  found  a  friend.  His  own  large  family  of 
children  drew  many  youngsters  around  them,  and 
to  all  of  these  Dickens  had  the  manner  of  a  kindly 
boy. 

In  a  letter  to  another  friend,  Mrs.  Watson, 
Dickens  tells  of  his  going  "  gypsying "  down  the 
river  with  his  son  Charley  and  three  of  his  school- 
fellows, himself  the  biggest  boy  among  them.  He 
was  to  meet  the  boys  at  Slough,  but  the  rain  came 
down  in  torrents  before  he  started ;  however,  rather 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  31I 

than  disappoint  them,  Dickens  and  a  friend  who 
volunteered  to  go  with  them  took  the  train,  ac- 
companied by  two  large  hampers  of  provisions. 
The  boys  had  begun  to  think  the  grown-ups  were 
not  coming;  they  had  been  up  since  four,  though 
the  train  w^as  not  due  till  eleven,  but  the  rain  had 
dashed  their  spirits.  However,  they  soon  cheered 
up  when  they  saw  the  two  gentlemen,  and  when  the 
hampers  came  out  of  the  luggage  van  they  danced 
in  wild  glee.  Dickens  took  them  first  to  the  tailor's, 
where  they  were  all  decked  out  in  boating  togs, 
then  to  the  boat-house,  where  a  gentleman  by  the 
name  of  "  Mahogany  " —  so  called  on  account  of 
his  sun-burnt  complexion  —  joined  the  company. 
There  was  a  boat  with  a  striped  awning  ordered 
for  the  occasion,  and  into  this  the  happy  youngsters 
tumbled  and  rowed  down  the  river. 

Dickens  owned  that  he  trembled  when  it  came 
to  feeding  hour.  They  dined  in  a  field,  and  what 
those  boys  devoured  in  the  way  of  refreshments 
beggared  even  Dickens's  description;  he  offered 
up  one  fervent  prayer  that  one  special  boy  might 
outlive  the  salad  he  took.  They  all  pronounced 
the  dinner  **  great  " ;  later,  they  took  tea  and  rashers 
of  bacon  at  a  public-house,  and  came  home  in  a 
prodigious  thunder-storm,  soaking  wet,  but  happy, 
while  Charley  roared  out  a  college  song  at  the  top 
of  his  lungs,  and  the  others  joined  in  the  chorus: 

I  don't  care  a  fig  what  the  people  may  think, 
But  what  will  the  Governor  say ! 


312  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

And  as  young  Charley's  "  Governor  "  was  sitting 
alongside,  joining  in  the  chorus,  what  did  it  matter 
after  all? 

He  tells  of  another  occasion  when  he  was  the 
leading  spirit  of  fun  at  a  children's  birthday  party. 
The  ''  birthday  girl  "  was  one  of  his  special  friends, 
Miss  Nina  Macready,  and  the  sleight-of-hand 
tricks  he  and  Forster  performed  on  that  memorable 
night,  sound  wonderful  even  to-day.  They  pro- 
duced a  plum  pudding  from  an  empty  saucepan 
which  they  held  over  a  fire  made  in  Stanfield's  hat, 
without  even  hurting  the  lining;  they  changed  a 
box  of  bran  into  a  guinea  pig,  and  many  other  re- 
markable things  known  to  the  trade. 

On  another  occasion  it  was  Dickens  who,  in  his 
kind,  fatherly  way,  drew  out  all  the  timid  children 
at  a  party,  made  them  recite  their  little  pieces  and 
sing  their  little  songs ;  it  was  he  who  led  the  games 
and  joined  in  the  fun.  He  was  the  friend,  there- 
fore, of  every  child  he  met,  and  children  know  by 
instinct  how  to  choose  their  friends. 

But  where  his  friends  were  to  be  found  in  even 
greater  numbers  was  among  the  poor,  whose  haunts 
he  knew  so  well,  whose  pathetic  history  he  has  told 
us  so  beautifully,  whose  cause  he  served  throughout 
his  life,  so  nobly. 

No  matter  what  honors  or  what  good  fortune 
came  his  way,  his  pen  was  always  ready  for  the 
people,  that  great  mass  of  people  struggling  in 
the  darkness;  his  hand  was  always  stretched  forth 


DICKENS  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  313 

to  help  them  toward  the  light  and  the  vision  of 
better  things.  His  greatest  gift  to  these  poor 
friends  of  his  was  "  Hard  Times,"  and  it  rang 
through  England  at  a  time  when  the  laboring  class 
most  needed  his  help.  It  was  more  than  a  ser- 
mon—  it  was  a  true  story  of  life,  and  it  was  the 
sign  and  seal  of  a  great  friendship. 

Nothing  was  ever  too  much  to  ask  or  to  give  in 
the  name  of  friendship.  Dickens's  friends  could 
have  shared  his  very  coat  with  him  —  had  they 
needed  It;  Indeed,  they  shared  many  things  that 
the  world  knew  nothing  about. 

He  had  beautiful,  old-fashioned  Ideas  about 
friendship;  he  had  old-fashioned  ideas  about  many 
things  —  but  he  could  draw  real  men  and  women, 
real  boys  and  girls,  and  Time  has  not  washed  the 
colors  from  his  pictures. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DICKENS    AT     HOME. 


Y  home,  we  mean  Gad's  Hill,  the  dream 
of  his  boyhood,  the  reality  of  his  middle 
age,  the  place  of  all  places  where  he 
most  desired  to  be,  and  where  he  was 
most  contented  to  stay;  and  from  the  pen  of  his 
own  daughter,  Mamie,  we  have  an  ideal  picture  of 
what  he  was  in  the  home  life  about  him. 

"  His  care  and  thought  fulness  about  home  mat- 
ters," she  tells  us,  .  .  .  "  were  really  marvel- 
ous when  we  remember  his  active,  eager,  restless, 
working  brain.  .  .  .  He  was  full  of  the  kind 
of  interest  in  a  house  which  is  commonly  confined 
to  women,  and  his  care  of  and  for  us  as  wee  chil- 
dren did  most  certainly  pass  the  love  of  women. 
His  was  a  tender  and  most  affectionate  nature." 
Speaking  of  his  love  for  children,  she  says : 
"  We  can  see,  by  the  different  child  characters  in 
his  books,  what  a  wonderful  knowledge  he  had  of 
children,  and  what  a  wonderful  and  truly  womanly 
sympathy  he  had  with  them  in  all  their  childish 
joys  and  griefs.  I  can  remember  with  us,  his  own 
children,  how  kind,  considerate,  and  patient  he  al- 
ways was. 

314 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  315 

''  But  we  were  never  afraid  to  go  to  him  in  any 
trouble,  and  never  had  a  snub  from  him  or  a  cross 
word  under  any  circumstances.  He  was  always 
glad  to  give  us  '  treats,'  as  he  called  them,  .  .  . 
and  if  any  favor  had  to  be  asked  we  were  always 
sure  of  a  favorable  answer.  On  these  occasions 
my  sister  *  Katie  '  was  generally  our  messenger,  we 
others  waiting  outside  the  study  door  to  hear  the 
verdict. 

''  There  never  existed,  I  think,  in  all  the  world, 
a  more  thoroughly  tidy  or  methodical  creature  than 
was  my  father.  He  was  tidy  in  every  way  —  in 
his  mind,  in  his  handsome,  graceful  person,  in  his 
work,  in  keeping  his  writing-table  drawers,  in  his 
large  correspondence,  in  fact,  in  his  whole  life." 

When  the  girls  were  little,  in  the  old  days  at 
Devonshire  Terrace,  they  had  a  garret  room,  which 
their  father  beautified  and  furnished  for  them,  and 
whenever  they  put  up  a  new  ornament  or  hung  a 
new  picture,  "  Father  "  had  to  be  dragged  to  the 
top  of  the  house  to  see  the  latest  addition.  No 
lady  of  the  house  could  have  been  more  particular 
about  visiting  every  room  once  a  day,  and  "if  a 
chair  was  out  of  its  place,  or  a  blind  not  quite 
straight,  or  a  crumb  left  on  the  floor,  woe  betide 
the  offender." 

''  His  punctuality,"  his  daughter  writes,  "  was 
almost  frightful  to  an  unpunctual  mind." 

His  friends,  on  being  invited  to  Gad's  Hill,  were 
thoroughly  posted  as  to  time  of  arrival  and  depar- 


3l6  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ture.  Dickens  was  always  on  time  to  meet  them, 
but  if  they  were  late  through  fault  of  their  own, 
they  either  paid  the  penalty  and  walked  to  the 
house,  or  else  hired  a  "  fly." 

His  sympathy  with  sickness  or  suffering  was 
very  keen,  and  he  was  splendid  in  a  sick  room. 
His  quick  step,  his  clear,  cheery  voice,  his  bright 
talk,  made  people  forget  their  aches  and  pains,  and 
he  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  to  do  in  an 
emergency. 

As  the  children  grew  older,  especially  the  girls, 
he  made  great  companions  of  them.  Mary  became 
his  right  hand  —  a  quiet,  serene  presence  in  the 
house,  but  Kate  had  the  power  of  "  drawing  him 
out,"  and  at  their  own  quiet  dinner  table  he  often 
shone  most  brilliantly. 

His  eyes  —  those  wonderful  eyes  —  seemed  to 
impress  everyone,  and  never  lost  their  power. 
They  lent  the  chief  expression  to  his  face,  now  soft 
and  dreamy,  now  full  of  fun  and  laughter. 

But  the  years  and  the  incessant  work  had  made 
changes  in  his  face,  it  was  seamed  and  wrinkled, 
and  at  fifty-eight  he  was  at  least  ten  years  older 
than  he  should  have  been.  He  had  put  too  much 
into  his  life  and  was  an  elderly  man  when  he  should 
have  just  turned  the  corner  of  middle  age.  That 
is  why  Gad's  Hill,  with  its  restful  beauty,  was  so 
delightful  to  him,  and  as  he  drove  or  walked  along 
the  beautiful  roads  and  by-ways,  he  could  pick  up 
here  and  there  the  threads  of  his  stories,  for  most 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  317 

of  them  held  a  touch  of  the  Kentish  country  as 
well  as  of  London.  From  *'  Pickwick  "  to  "  Edwin 
Drood  " —  his  last  unfinished  novel  —  we  can  pick 
flowers  along  this  beautiful  country  wayside.  He 
might  write  his  books  in  Lausanne,  in  Genoa,  or  in 
Paris,  but  they  breathed  of  London  and  this  coun- 
try-side. 

He  liked  the  ancestral  air  about  his  new  home; 
he  hoped  to  make  it  the  beginning  of  a  family 
estate ;  he  w^anted  to  be  buried  near  it,  in  some  peace- 
ful, quiet  spot  away  from  the  world,  but  he  had 
much  to  do  before  he  thought  of  dying.  And  yet 
in  many  little  ways  he  himself  saw  signs  of  break- 
ing health;  he  was  often  very  tired,  and  after  his 
reading  tour  in  America,  this  fatigue  was  very 
noticeable  to  others.  But  he  would  let  nothing  mar 
the  lightness  and  the  gaiety  of  his  home  life. 

Miss  Dickens  describes  the  joyous  Christmas 
frolics  and  Twelfth  Night  festivities,  where  the 
more  children  that  assembled  under  his  roof  —  the 
merrier.     He  wrote  once  to  a  friend : 

"  The  Actuary  of  the  national  debt  couldn't  cal- 
culate the  number  of  children  who  are  coming  here 
on  Twelfth  Night,  in  honor  of  Charley's  birthday, 
for  which  occasion  I  have  provided  a  magic  lantern 
and  divers  other  tremendous  engines  of  that  nature. 
But  the  best  of  it  is  that  Forster  and  I  have  pur- 
chased between  us  the  entire  stock-in-trade  of  a 
conjuror,  the  practice  and  display  whereof  is  en- 
trusted to  me.     And  if  you  could  see  me  conjuring 


3l8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  company's  watches  into  impossible  tea-caddies, 
and  causing  pieces  of  money  to  fly,  and  burning 
pocket  handkerchiefs  —  without  burning  'em,  and 
practicing  in  my  own  room  without  anybody  to 
admire,  you  would  never  forget  it  as  long  as  you 
live." 

Miss  Dickens  says : 

"  One  of  these  conjuring  tricks  comprised  the 
disappearance  and  reappearance  of  a  tiny  doll,  which 
would  announce  most  unexpected  pieces  of  news 
and  messages  to  the  different  children  in  the  audi- 
ence; this  doll  was  a  particular  favorite,  and  its 
arrival  eagerly  awaited  and  welcomed." 

Later,  some  tinier  folks  still  were  added  to  his 
audience,  his  own  grandchildren,  the  children  of 
Charles,  who  became  his  boon  companions.  He 
found  them  great  fun,  and  taught  them  to  call  him 
"  Wenerables,"  as  the  immortal  Sam  Weller  would 
have  done.  They  considered  it  the  grave  and 
proper  name  for  him,  much  to  the  amusement  of  the 
family. 

Gad's  Hill  was  always  so  full  of  guests  for  the 
holiday  season  that  a  cottage  in  the  village  was  hired 
for  the  bachelor  members  of  the  party,  and  jolly 
times  they  had.  For  Dickens  made  a  delightfully 
entertaining  host,  his  conversation  at  his  own  table 
was  so  full  of  humor  and  real  fun  that  the  servants 
were  often  convulsed  with  laughter  as  they  waited 
on  the  guests. 

*'  One  morning,"  we  are  told,  "  it  was  the  last 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  319 

day  of  the  year,  I  remember,  while  we  were  at 
breakfast  at  Gad's  Hill,  my  father  suggested  that 
we  should  celebrate  the  evening  by  a  charade,  to 
be  acted  in  pantomime.  The  suggestion  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamation,  and  amid  shouts  and  laugh- 
ing we  were  then  and  there  —  guests  and  members 
of  the  family  —  allotted  our  respective  parts.  My 
father  went  about  collecting  *  stage  properties,'  re- 
hearsals were  *  called  '  at  least  four  times  during  the 
morning,  and  in  all  our  excitement  no  thought  was 
given  to  the  necessary  part  of  a  charade  —  the  audi- 
ence, wdiose  business  it  is  to  guess  the  pantomime. 
At  luncheon,  someone  asked  suddenly,  *  But  what 
about  the  audience  ? '  *  Why,  bless  my  soul,'  said 
my  father,  '  I'd  forgotten  all  about  that.'  " 

The  invitations  were  sent  out  at  once  and  the 
evening  turned  out  to  be  a  memorable  one.  Then 
towards  midnight,  in  the  midst  of  the  frolic,  actors 
and  audience  streamed  out  into  the  hall  "  and,  throw- 
ing wide  open  the  door,  my  father,  watch  in  hand, 
stood  waiting  to  hear  the  bells  ring  in  the  New 
Year.  All  was  hush  and  silence  after  the  laughter 
and  merriment!  Suddenly  the  peal  of  bells 
sounded,  and,  turning,  he  said,  '  A  happy  New  Year 
to  us  all !  God  bless  us ! '  Kisses,  good  wishes,  and 
shaking  of  hands  brought  us  back  to  the  fun  and 
gaiety  of  a  few  minutes  earlier." 

One  New  Year's  day  he  organized  field  sports 
for  the  villagers,  and  nothing  was  spared  to  make 
this  winter  fete  a  success.     Between  two  and  three 


320  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

thousand  people,  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  came 
to  witness  these  sports,  chiefly  the  poor  laborers, 
soldiers,  sailors,  and  navvies,  but  so  great  was  Dick- 
ens's influence  over  them  that  he  himself  wrote  to 
a  friend,  with  satisfaction: 

"  There  was  not  a  dispute,  and  there  was  no 
drunkenness  whatever.  I  made  them  a  little  speech 
from  the  lawn,  at  the  end  of  the  games,  saying  that, 
please  God,  we  would  do  it  again  next  year.  They 
cheered  most  lustily  and  dispersed.  The  road  be- 
tween this  and  Chatham  was  like  a  fair  all  day ; 
and  surely  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  get  such  perfect 
behavior  out  of  a  reckless  seaport  town." 

When  at  work  Dickens  required  absolute  quiet, 
and  yet  he  liked  to  be  near  to  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  London,  so  that  he  could  get  to  it  when  the  utter 
stillness  was  too  much  for  him.  He  says :  *'  For  a 
week  or  fortnight  I  can  write  prodigiously  in  a 
retired  place,  a  day  in  London  setting  and  starting 
me  up  again.  But  the  toil  and  labor  of  writing 
day  after  day  without  that  magic  lantern  is  im- 
mense." 

When  they  lived  at  Tavistock  House,  Miss  Dick- 
ens relates,  she  had  a  serious  illness,  and  during  her 
tedious  convalescence  her  father  suggested  that  she 
should  be  carried  down  every  day  into  his  study. 
The  quiet  child  was  afraid  of  disturbing  him,  but 
he  was  eager  to  have  her. 

"  On  one  of  these  mornings,"  she  writes,  '^  I  was 
lying  on  the  sofa  endeavoring  to  keep  perfectly 


DICKENS  AT  HOME  32I 

quiet  while  my  father  wrote  busily  and  rapidly  at 
his  desk,  when  he  suddenly  jumped  from  his  chair 
and  rushed  to  the  mirror  which  hung  near,  and  in 
which  I  could  see  the  reflection  of  some  extraor- 
dinary facial  contortions  which  he  was  making. 
He  returned  rapidly  to  his  desk,  wrote  furiously 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  went  again  to  the 
mirror.  The  facial  pantomime  was  resumed,  and 
then,  turning  toward,  but  evidently  not  seeing  me, 
he  began  talking  rapidly  in  a  low  voice.  Ceasing 
this  soon,  however,  he  returned  once  more  to  his 
desk,  where  he  remained  silently  writing  until 
luncheon  time.  Then  I  knew  that  ...  he 
had  thrown  himself  completely  into  the  character 
that  he  was  creating,  and  that  for  the  time  being, 
he  had  not  only  lost  sight  of  his  surroundings,  but 
had  actually  become  .  .  .  the  creature  of  his 
pen." 

His  study  was  always  the  pleasantest  of  pleasing 
places.  The  one  at  Gad's  Hill  was  lined  with  books, 
and  to  preserve  the  library  effect,  counterfeit  book- 
backs  were  arranged  on  shelves  to  fit  the  door  of 
the  room.  These  book-backs  all  had  titles  chosen 
by  Dickens  himself,  w^hose  sense  of  humor  could 
not  be  suppressed.     Here  are  some  of  them: 

Commonplace  Book  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.     2  vols. 
Growler's  Gruffiology,  with  Appendix.     4  vols. 
The  Books  of  Moses  and  Sons. 
Lady  Godiva  on  the  Horse. 
Miss  Buffin  on  Deportment. 


Z22  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Hansard  Guide  to  Refreshing  Sleep.     (Many  vols.) 

Opties.     (Hooks  and  Eyes.) 

Acoustics.     (Cod's  Sounds.) 

Noah's  Arkitecture.     2  vols. 

Chickweed. 

Groundsel.     (By  the  Author  of  Chickweed.) 

Cats'  Lives.     9  vols. 

Five  Minutes  in  China.     3  vols. 

History  of  the  Middling  Ages.     6  vols. 

Jonah's  Account  of  the  Whale. 

Kant's  Eminent  Humbugs.     10  vols. 

Bowwowdom. 

The  Quarrelly  Review.     4  vols. 

Steele,  by  the  Author  of  "  Ion." 

On  the  Use  of  Mercury  by  the  Ancient  Poets, 

Drowsy's  Recollections  of  Nothing. 

The  Art  of  Cutting  Teeth. 

Teazer's  Commentaries. 

There  were  many  other  names  on  the  shelves,  but 
these  are  enough  for  illustration. 

When  Dickens  first  moved  to  Gad's  Hill  on  a 
certain  memorable  third  of  September,  i860,  he 
started  a  remarkable  bonfire  on  the  place.  He 
wrote  to  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills  : 

'*  Yesterday  I  burnt  in  the  field  at  Gad's  Hill  the 
accumulated  letters  and  papers  of  twenty  years. 
They  sent  up  a  smoke  like  the  Genie  when  he  got 
out  of  the  casket  on  the  seashore,  and  as  it  was 
an  exquisite  day  when  I  began,  and  rained  very 
heavily  when  I  finished,  I  suspect  my  correspondence 
of  having  overcast  the  face  of  the  heavens." 

A  man  is,  of  course,  at  liberty  to  do  what  he 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  323 

likes  with  his  own  letters,  but  such  reckless  burn- 
ing seems  a  pity.  His  own  private  and  particular 
letters,  especially  those  of  his  family,  he  naturally 
wished  to  destroy,  but  he  was  so  much  in  the  eye 
of  the  public  that  he  might  have  spared  to  them 
those  letters  which  were  of  national  or  international 
interest. 

In  the  same  manner,  when  John  Forster  prepared 
his  friend's  biography  and  made  use  of  his  own 
private  letters  and  communications  from  Dickens, 
he  had  no  hesitancy  in  snipping  and  cutting  to  suit 
his  text,  and  then  pasting  them  on  his  manuscript 
regardless  of  the  closely-written  back.  To  him 
those  letters  meant  merely  the  letters  of  a  friend; 
the  literary  world  would  have  paid  many  guineas 
for  the  fragments.  As  it  is,  however,  Dickens's 
letters  to  his  friends  received  better  treatment,  and 
there  are,  besides  the  three  volumes  of  his  collected 
letters,  many  others  which  rise  up  from  unex- 
pected sources. 

His  love  for  animals,  flowers,  and  birds,  was 
almost  a  passion.  Dogs  were  his  favorites,  and  he 
was  fond  of  telling  an  anecdote  of  a  certain  dog 
friend  of  his,  the  property  of  a  lady  whom  he  knew 
quite  well.  His  name  was  "  Of,"  and  he  was  a. 
great  good-humored,  black  Newfoundland  dog. 
He  used  to  go  out  every  morning  for  a  swim  in 
the  river,  but  his  owner  noticed  that  he  always 
came  back  smelling  of  beer.  She  watched,  and 
discovered  that  "  Of  "  stopped  each  morning  at  a 


324  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

certain  beer  shop  and  was  supplied  with  his  regular 
pint,  by  the  man  in  charge,  who  explained  to  the 
lady  in  this  fashion: 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  know  he's  your  dog,  ma'am,  but 
I  didn't  when  he  first  came.  He  looked  in,  ma'am, 
as  a  brickmaker  might,  and  then  he  come  in,  as  a 
brickmaker  might,  and  he  wagged  his  tail  at  the 
pots,  and  he  giv  a  sniff  round,  and  conveyed  to  me 
as  he  was  used  to  beer.  So  I  draw'd  him  a  drop, 
and  he  drunk  it  up.  Next  morning  he  come  agen 
by  the  clock,  and  I  draw'd  him  a  pint,  and  ever 
since  he  has  took  his  pint  reg'lar." 

"  On  account  of  our  birds,"  writes  Miss  Dick- 
ens, "  cats  were  not  allowed  in  the  house ;  but  from 
a  friend  in  London  I  received  a  present  of  a  white 
kitten  —  Williamina  —  and  she  and  her  numerous 
offspring  had  a  happy  home  at  Gad's  Hill.  She 
became  a  favorite  with  all  the  household  and  showed 
particular  devotion  to  my  father.  I  remember  on 
one  occasion  when  she  had  presented  us  with  a 
family  of  kittens,  she  selected  a  corner  of  father's 
study  for  their  home.  She  brought  them  one  by 
one  from  the  kitchen  and  deposited  them  in  her 
chosen  corner.  My  father  called  to  me  to  remove 
them,  saying  that  he  could  not  allow  the  kittens 
to  remain  in  his  room.  I  did  so,  but  Williamina 
brought  them  back  again,  one  by  one.  Again  they 
were  removed.  The  third  time,  instead  of  putting 
them  in  a  corner,  she  placed  them  all,  and  herself, 
beside  them,  at  my  father's  feet,  and  gave  him  such 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  325 

an  imploring  glance  that  he  could  resist  no  longer, 
and  they  were  allowed  to  remain." 

One  of  these  kittens  was  quite  deaf,  and  he  had 
no  name.  He  became  attached  to  Dickens  and  fol- 
lowed him  about  the  garden  like  a  dog.  One  night 
when  he  was  reading  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  with 
the  cat  beside  him,  suddenly  the  light  went  out;  he 
was  interested  in  his  book,  so  he  relighted  the  candle 
and  went  on  reading ;  a  few  minutes  later  he  caught 
the  cat  in  the  act  of  putting  out  the  candle  again 
with  his  paw,  which  meant,  "  No  more  reading 
to-night,  Mr.  Dickens,"  so  the  hint  was  taken,  and 
puss  was  given  the  petting  he  demanded. 

Dogs,  however,  were  the  favorite  animals  of  the 
household.  There  w^re  "  Turk,"  a  beautiful 
mastiff,  and  "  Linda,"  a  St.  Bernard ;  there  were 
*'  Don  and  Bumble,"  big  Newfoundlands;  there  was 
"  Sultan,"  an  Irish  bloodhound ;  "  and  last,  though 
not  least  —  except  in  size  —  was  *  Mrs.  Bouncer,' 
a  tiny  Pomeranian,  who  won  her  way  by  her  grace 
and  daintiness  into  the  affections  of  every  member 
of  the  household.  My  father  became  her  special 
slave,  and  had  a  peculiar  voice  for  her  —  as  he  had 
for  us  when  we  were  children  —  to  which  she  would 
respond  at  once,  by  running  to  him  from  any  part 
of  the  house  when  she  heard  his  call.  He  delighted 
to  see  her  with  the  large  dogs,  with  whom  she  gave 
herself  great  airs,  '  because,'  as  he  said,  '  she  looks 
so  preposterously  small.'  " 

"  Mrs.   Bouncer "  was  quite  a  character  in  the 
22 


326  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

family,  and  Dickens  used  to  send  messages  to  her 
when  he  was  away  from  home.  Mr.  Percy  Fitz- 
gerald has  written  a  great  deal  concerning  the  per- 
sonal life  of  Charles  Dickens,  in  which  he  remarks 
on  his  love  for  dogs  and  the  parts  they  played  in 
his  many  novels.  In  a  certain  interesting  article 
by  him,  entitled  **  The  Landseer  of  English  Fic- 
tion,'' he  has  dwelt  on  this  side  of  his  character. 
Landseer,  we  know,  was  a  wonderful  painter  of 
dogs,  and  Dickens  had  that  same  touch  in  his  de- 
scriptions. 

On  his  return  from  his  last  visit  to  America, 
Dickens  wrote  the  following  account  of  his  welcome 
home  by  the  dogs :  "  As  you  ask  me  about  the  dogs, 
I  begin  with  them.  When  I  came  down  first,  I 
came  to  Gravesend  —  five  miles  off.  The  two 
Newfoundland  dogs,  coming  to  meet  me  with  the 
usual  carriage  and  the  usual  driver,  and  beholding 
me  coming  in  my  usual  dress,  out  at  the  usual  door, 
it  struck  me  that  their  recollection  of  my  having 
been  absent  for  any  unusual  time,  was  at  once  can- 
celled. They  behaved  (they  were  both  young  dogs) 
exactly  in  their  usual  manner,  coming  behind  the 
basket  phaeton  as  we  trotted  along,  and  lifting  their 
heads  to  have  their  ears  pulled,  a  special  attention 
which  they  received  from  no  one  else.  But  when 
I  drove  into  the  stable  yard,  *  Linda '  was  greatly 
excited;  weeping  profusely,  and  throwing  herself 
on  her  back  that  she  might  caress  my  foot  with  her 
great    forepaws.     Mamie's   little   dog,    too,    *  Mrs. 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  327 

Bouncer,'  barked  in  the  greatest  agitation  on  being 
called  down  and  asked,  '  Who  is  this  ?  '  " 

There  was  a  celebrated  pet  canary  named  Dick, 
the  property  of  Miss  Dickens,  who  died  of  old  age 
and  had  a  grave  at  Gad's  Hill,  and  there  was  a 
certain  fat,  family  horse  named  "  Trotty  Veck," 
who  was  also  a  great  pet. 

In  speaking  of  her  father's  readings.  Miss  Dick- 
ens says :  "  .  .  .  into  their  performances  and 
preparations  he  threw  the  best  energy  of  his  heart 
and  soul,  practicing  and  rehearsing  at  all  times  and 
places.  The  meadow  near  our  home  was  a  favorite 
place,  and  people  passing  through  the  lane,  not 
knowing  who  he  was  or  what  doing,  must  have 
thought  him  a  madman,  from  his  reciting  and  ges- 
ticulation." 

Dickens  gave  his  last  public  reading  in  St.  James's 
Hall,  London,  on  March  15,  1870,  proposing  from 
that  time  forth,  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  his 
writing.  Returning  to  Gad's  Hill,  he  at  once 
plunged  into  his  new  book,  "  The  Mystery  of  Edwin 
Drood,"  the  first  part  of  which  made  its  appearance 
in  April,   1870. 

He  was  as  keenly  interested  in  this  story  as  if  it 
had  been  his  first  instead  of  his  last,  and  to  insure 
perfect  quiet  during  his  writing  hours,  he  retired 
to  the  pretty  little  Swiss  Chalet,  which  his  friend, 
Mr.  Charles  Fechter  (the  well-known  actor)  had 
sent  him  as  a  present  one  Christmas,  and  which  had 
been  placed  amid  shrubbery  and  trees,  in  the  most 


328  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

attractive  part  of  the  grounds.  We  have  often 
seen  these  Chalets  in  toy  miniature.  This  one  could 
be  entered  below,  through  a  door  in  front,  and  a 
winding  stairway  on  the  outside  led  to  the  upper 
story. 

"  My  room  is  up  among  the  branches  of  the  trees," 
wrote  Dickens  to  an  American  friend,  "  and  the 
birds  and  the  butterflies  fly  in  and  out,  and  the 
green  branches  shoot  in  at  the  open  windows,  and 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  clouds  come  and  go 
with  the  rest  of  the  company." 

And  there  in  this  quiet  and  repose  was  begun 
(and  alas!  left  unfinished)  his  last  book.  As  he 
wrote  day  after  day,  with  all  the  old  vigor  and  the 
old  delight,  he  had  no  idea  that  the  end  would  come 
for  him  with  the  first  breath  of  the  summer  breeze. 
He  only  knew  that  life  was  very  full  still  of  all  that 
a  man  holds  dear,  and  he  wanted  to  live  to  do  more 
work,  and  add  more  luster  to  his  name,  and  leave  a 
brighter  heritage  to  his  children. 

The  story  itself  —  at  least,  all  we  have  of  it  — 
is  darkened  with  gloom  and  foreboding,  so  perhaps 
after  all  he  was  touched  with  a  presentiment  of  his 
coming  fate;  but  the  sunny  life  went  on  at  Gad's 
Hill,  and  none  knew  of  the  silent  battle  with  mortal 
weakness,  during  the  writing  of  "  Edwin  Drood." 
He  never  complained,  though  his  face  often  bore 
signs  of  the  struggle. 

He  was  always  improving  Gad's  Hill;  the  walls 
and  doors  of  the  drawing-room  had  been  lined  with 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  329 

mirrors,  and  when  Dickens  showed  it  to  Mrs.  Col- 
lins, his  youngest  daughter,  he  said : 

"  Now,  Katie,  you  behold  your  parent's  latest  and 
last  achievement,"  and  she  had  replied  laughingly, 
"  I  believe.  Papa,  that  when  you  become  an  angel, 
your  wings  will  be  made  of  looking-glass,  and 
your  crown  of  scarlet  geraniums."  Miss  Dickens, 
in  her  reminiscences,  adds : 

*'  The  '  last  improvement ' —  in  truth,  the  very 
last,  was  the  building  of  a  conservatory  between 
the  drawing  and  dining  rooms.  My  father  was 
more  delighted  with  this  than  with  any  previous 
alteration,  and  it  was  certainly  a  pretty  addition 
to  the  quaint  old  villa. 

"...  He  was  out  with  the  dogs  for  the  last 
time  on  the  sixth  of  June,  when  he  walked  into 
Rochester  for  the  Daily  Mail.  My  sister  —  who 
had  come  to  see  the  latest  *  improvement '  .  .  . 
was  to  take  me  with  her  to  London  on  her  return, 
for  a  short  visit.  The  conservatory  or  *  improve- 
ment '  which  Katie  had  been  summoned  to  inspect, 
had  been  stocked,  and  by  this  time  many  of  the 
plants  were  in  full  blossom.  Everything  was  at  its 
brightest,  and  I  remember  distinctly  my  father's 
pleasure  in  showing  my  sister  the  beauties  of  his 
*  improvement.'  " 

The  next  day,  Monday,  June  the  seventh,  the  two 
young  ladies  left  for  London.  Dickens  always 
hated  to  say  good-by,  and  at  the  time  of  their  going, 
he  was  in  the  Chalet,  writing  busily.     '*  Just  as  we 


330  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

were  about  to  start,"  Miss  Dickens  tells  us,  "  my 
sister  suddenly  said :  '  I  must  say  good-bye  to 
Papa,'  and  hurried  over  to  the  Chalet  ...  as 
a  rule  my  father  would  hold  up  his  cheek  to  be 
kissed,  but  this  day  he  took  my  sister  in  his  arms, 
saying,  *  God  bless  you,  Katie,'  and  there  '  among 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  among  the  birds  and  but- 
terflies, and  the  scent  of  flowers,'  she  left  him,  never 
to  look  into  his  eyes  again." 

On  June  eighth,  two  hours  before  he  was  taken 
ill,  he  had  written  about  Rochester  and  the 
Cathedral,  about  the  "  Resurrection  and  the  Life," 
when  he  laid  down  his  pen  forever. 

That  night  at  the  dinner-table  he  was  stricken 
down.  His  sister-in-law,  who  was  with  him,  ter- 
rified at  his  pallor,  begged  him  to  lie  down.  ^'  Yes, 
on  the  ground,"  he  said  —  the  very  last  words  he 
spoke.  Then  unconsciousness  fell  upon  him,  and 
the  end  came  swiftly.  On  the  ninth  of  June,  with- 
out a  struggle,  and  just  one  sigh,  he  closed  his  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  the  great  human  heart  was  still  at 
last. 

His  wish  had  been  for  a  quiet  grave  in  some 
well-loved  corner  of  Gad's  Hill,  but  the  nation 
claimed  its  dead,  and  who  better  deserved  a  place 
in  Westminster  Abbey  ^ — than  Charles  Dickens? 

There  are  many  memorials  of  him,  and  from 
many  pictures  his  kindly,  genial  face  smiles  out  at 
us,  but  the  saddest  picture  of  all  is  called  "  The 
Empty  Chair."     Only  a  large  sunny  room,  with  a 


DICKENS  AT  HOME.  331 

bay  window  looking  out  upon  the  smiling  English 
country.  The  desk  is  there,  and  on  its  shelf  the 
little  ornaments  he  loved  to  have  about  him.  A 
writing-pad  rests  on  the  sloping  ledge,  but  the  chair 
tells  the  eloquent  tale;  it  is  pushed  back  just  as  if 
the  Author  had  risen  for  one  of  his  quick  turns 
about  the  room;  there  is  a  listening  air  about  it,  its 
arms  seem  stretched  out  for  an  embrace,  the  very 
room  has  a  waiting  aspect  for  the  presence  that  will 
never  come. 

And  it  seems  as  if  the  world  were  still  waiting 
for  another  Dickens.  There  has  been  no  one  yet 
to  fill  the  empty  chair. 


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